


Paradigm Shift

by bioloyg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Character deaths (minor and prior to the story), Derek POV, Dryad!Stiles, Emissary, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Slow Build, Things from canon rearranged to fit the story, apocalypse au, canon specific elements, death mentions and nightmares, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunset began as drugs hit the shelves, laced with false promises and viruses that were supposed to help their host, not harm them. That was laughable. Symbiosis with bacteria, sure, but Derek knew these viruses weren’t something that should ever be viewed as “helpful tools” or at the “beck and call” of humans.<br/>He’d been right. He hoped for once that he was wrong, that his disbelief was misplaced and all would be fine, but that was the optimistic take on a piss poor situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _You're not an ordinary wolf at all._  
>  ~  
> I was supposed to be working on a mermaid AU but this idea snuck up on me and refused to go away, so here we are - a fresh Apocalypse AU. I hope you enjoy where it takes you and if you don't there are some other cool Zombie AU's I could recommend.  
> My works go unbeta'd so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I'll go back and change what I see fit throughout the story. If anything major changes I'll let you guys know!

PART ONE: The Tree Walker Cases

 

The first time Derek catches sight of them it’s while he’s out hunting. He’s in his alpha form, unimportant to most of the remaining life forms around him if not the source of their fear. The air is thick with humidity, cloying almost, and it ripples in the afternoon heat. Derek almost thinks he’s seeing things. It’s been so long since he’s seen another.

The person is in the trees.

Derek has caught wind of some interesting scents before, heard tree branches bristle in the steady air, but he’d chalked it up to animals when he felt the danger was minimal if at all present. He wasn’t really expecting this though, of all things. Some human-like person moving gracefully through the trees as if it were nothing short of ordinary for them.

They barely even rustle the leaves around them as they hop and jump from branch to branch, and in a few startling instances, across to different trees completely.

Derek didn’t even think there were many people left in this sector of California, let alone within what’s been his stomping grounds for the past two months. He chides himself for letting them slip under his radar. It’s a testament to the fact that he’s probably been here too long.

But they don’t seem to be causing trouble. In fact, they seem to be keeping from it all together, avoiding the ground as if it were lava.

The second time Derek sees them it’s an accident. For once he isn’t in wolf form, gifted with the advantage of his two limbed height, and he catches them while surveying his surroundings. They’re pretty far away from him, whoever they are. It’s a miracle he even sees them the way that they blend in.

Ever curious, he slips from the stream where he’d been washing himself and lets the alpha shift take him. His muscles tug and pull in a way that’s just shy of painful before his bones break and reform until he’s his other self. Then, dashing through the woods without so much as a snapping twig, he makes it to the line in which the person is traveling.

They leap from tree to tree at speeds that impress even him for what looks like no reason at all. Derek’s barely up to a jog, but any human – or human-like thing – that can move through scattered limbs with such precision has his attention. That and if they’re running he can only assume it’s for good reason. He doesn’t sense any predators in the area, but again, he’s curious.

It only takes him a few more moments to parse out the reason they’re moving so quickly but he does so just in time. They’re  _hunting_.

Derek’s hackles raise, interest piqued tenfold. His wolf wants to pounce. Wants to join in the mystery person’s chase. Somehow they’ve managed to spot a full herd of deer. Derek tails from the opposite side, careful not to make a sound, and watches as the person slows. The person moves deliberately and with a careful air but Derek can’t quite make out what they’re doing through the remaining sheets of yellow and orange. The leaves are still stubbornly holding on despite fall having come a few weeks ago.

And then he hears it. The quiet whistle and  _snnnk_  as something hits one of the deer. The herd scatters in the mayhem and a lone buck falls to the ground, motionless already. Derek only marvels at the accuracy of the hit for a few seconds then watches the person leap from the tree. They land with nothing more than a light thud.

The wolf has little time to be awed by them though. With the impending cold that’s sure to creep in with winter he wants to take advantage of the deer he’s been so kindly led to. Whether the hunter is aware of this or not isn’t his problem.

It doesn’t take Derek long to make quick work of one of the stragglers.

~

After a while Derek begins to call them the Tree Walker, having noted a few things in the time he’s had to study them.

For one, they are  _always_  in the trees when he comes across them. It’s very rare occasion that he sees them step from their safe haven in the boughs. The wolf also knows that while they hide, they can fight, or hunt at least. They’re skittish too.

Just once Derek had snapped a branch, not even all that loud, and they’d pulled themselves up into the trees again before he could so much as get a glimpse of their face.

That’s another thing. He doesn’t really know what they look like. Only how they smell, and even that is faint. It’s as if they’ve become one with the backdrop that is the woods, nothing more than a whisper. He’s starting to wonder if they’re even real.

~

It’s been a while since Derek has seen anything. So long that he has almost gotten used to the thought that the visitor might’ve been a figment of his company starved mind. He hasn’t seen a tree so much as twitch in a while, and the trees are mostly barren, save the stubborn top branches of some trees – and the conifers.

He figures the person has moved on to higher ground or a different area if they were even real at all. That is, until he hears the screams.

They aren’t cries of pain or agony, they’re  _angry_. Whoever is yelling is not one of their undead foes and while Derek has never heard more than a footstep from the Tree Walker he has a strange feeling that the enraged roar is theirs.

Shifting as quickly as he can manage, he breaks into a sprint towards the sound only to recoil when the scent of death hits him. How he has managed to avoid the walking bags of death for so long is a miracle, and one he thanks the heavens for often. Even if they are the reason he’s in this mess in the first place.

Tree Walker is surrounded but holding their own. They’re trying to get back to the trees but apparently none of the branches are deemed suitable so they run on, only turning back to fire off a few rounds from some sort of arm bow. A few of the walkers are quick to succumb to their weaponry, but the sprinters are stronger than that. They dash on broken limbs and grab for the Tree Walker only to be kicked and slashed at with a katana they pull from a sheath at their back.

Derek can’t tell what’s driven him to help or even get caught up in this, but when he deems the risk suitable to take he dashes into the fray and rips one of the sprinter’s necks open. The Tree Walker barely flinches and continues to parry, occasionally thrusting and slashing crudely.

Their back is left vulnerable and a Sprinter takes the chance only to have their innards spilled when Derek slams them into a tree, ripping them limb from limb. He may have gone a little overboard, but one can never be too careful. After all, the minor oversight of such a simple thing as death had cost many people their lives. One of the unspoken rules of the apocalypse is the double tap.

Back in the present Tree Walker heaves deep breaths, their heartbeat rabbit fast. Derek can smell them better now, up close as he is. They’re musky and earthen, but they’re also sweet smelling, reminiscent of syrup or sap. It’s pleasant, not overpowering. 

They turn to Derek now, a shake still unsettling their usual equilibrium. Their face is covered by a mask, no doubt in place to keep from getting scratched as they pass through branches, but they remove it with jerky limbs. They seem surprisingly less fluid in their movements up close.

The wolf is met with eyes like the very amber the trees took part in forming, and the man’s face is speckled just like they sky, constellations of moles and freckles covering the pale white expanse of his face and neck. His hair stands on its ends, not quite long but not a close shave either, ruffled by the mask. It’s the most unkempt thing about him so far.

Tree Walker narrows his eyes at the mess of bodies around them and then looks over at Derek. It’s appraising at first but a hint of scrutiny creeps in and the man stalks closer, legs long and lean.

“You’re not an ordinary wolf at all,” he breathes out sounding almost in awe.

Derek lets out a displeased huff at having been made but he doesn’t leave just yet. He doesn’t feel like he’s in much danger, aside from the apparent infestation of undead visitors. And if the man knows what Derek is then maybe  _he_  is something preternatural. In Derek’s experience most humans didn’t respond that well to his kind.

The man comes closer still and a reflexive growl slips past his teeth, which are now bared. Tree Walker just smirks, unaffected by it outwardly, and takes a step back.

“Figures. Probably feral. Never seen one in full shift before.” The voice is laced with a near putrid cynicism that Derek knows all too well, but he isn’t very pleased with the man’s assumption. He’s far from feral, he just prefers this form.

Before he can even begin to think about whether or not he feels like explaining the Tree Walker is dancing around the corpse, moving to hoist himself into a tree.

Speechless doesn’t even begin to cover it, and it isn’t even because of his current state. The man is confusing. Of all the things Derek was prepared to come across during the death of humanity as they knew it, he never once pictured a pessimistic tree hopping man. And that’s just an observation from the first two things Derek’s heard from him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _More than 1 billion lives had been lost to foolishness_

Life before “Sunset” was hardly peaceful. Derek’s former territory had been under the constant assault of invading supernatural creatures. His pack was damaged, almost to the point of no repair, and he was too. Still is, admittedly, but no one is around to comment on his poor state nowadays.

At large, the world was at its tipping point. The population had grown to an impressively horrifying 9 billion, and greed had turned the poor and defenseless into skeletons in powerful countries’ closets. Crops were failing and had been for some time. No amount of genetic prodding could change the sorry state of the soil that had long been sapped of any and all nutrients. Famine set in and the doomsday preppers laughed from their underground bunkers filled with food, but eventually they too were caught.

Trades began to cease between nations, leaders now unwilling to negotiate such high prices as their economies collapsed. And suddenly more than just the lower class was suffering. With the stages of collapse setting in people became more and more zealous in their attempts to scrounge money from the pockets of  _somewhere_.

Men of the scientific community barreled past preliminary tests and forewent the now unheard of government funding in favor of more lucrative avenues in the private sector. Regardless, leaders of once powerful nations were happy to fund behind the scenes as well, anything to have the answer first and preserve their remaining citizens – if that could be arranged.

“Dawn” began with the testing of viruses and their purported usefulness. Scientists knew viruses could carry genes to cells only to translate the new data into the target and cause a change. Thus the hypothesis that viruses could make us stronger, more resistant to the famine and death around us, maybe even protect us, began.

Many trusted the growing industry to follow proper protocol. The people were willing to blindly follow anyone who promised them hope. Derek couldn’t fault them. Even _he_ had wanted to believe there was hope for the world when halfway through Dawn the Earth’s population had taken on a 500 million death toll in the span of just 4 months. It was unprecedented, and enough to shake even the most stable of people.

But everyone quickly learned that where corners were cut nothing of value was to be gained. Especially not when the corners you cut had dangerous implications for people’s lives.

The beta testing for the resistance gene carried by these _special_ viruses resulted in an outlook that was bleak even at its best. Scientists chalked it up to not being in the right host, after all they’d created these viruses to help humans, not rats. No matter how similar the two were in theory they just weren’t the same.

Sure, there were skeptics and whistle blowers galore, but nothing was ever quite as loud as money and fear. Money funded the growing fire and Fear gave it the much needed oxygen to keep burning.

At the end of Dawn, which had lasted an agonizing 8 months, more than 1 billion lives had been lost to foolishness and the whim of Mother Nature herself. Survival of the fittest was brutal, and humans had been foolish to think that they could escape its grasp, as if they were above it.

Sunset began as drugs hit the shelves, laced with false promises and viruses that were supposed to help their host, not harm them. That was laughable. Symbiosis with bacteria, sure, but Derek knew these viruses weren’t something that should ever be viewed as “helpful tools” or at the “beck and call” of humans.

He’d been right. He hoped for once that he was be wrong, that his disbelief was misplaced and all would be fine, but that was the optimistic take on a piss poor situation.

The rapid fall of the population was only exacerbated by the efforts of the men who’d rushed through tape and past hurdles in a vain attempt to save it. It looked like it was working for a while, and they’d almost had Derek fooled when the population even picked up, births finally surpassing the death rate again, but it was short lived.

First came the fevers. The host bodies were overworking themselves, unable to handle what the viruses “thought” they could, were encoded to act as if the humans could. Second were allergic reactions, bodies on overdrive responding poorly and attacking themselves as the viruses changed parts of them beyond recognition. The third stage was just as unpleasant as the preceding. People began to rot from the inside out if they managed to make it past the allergic reaction – epipens did exist. However, no amount of epinephrine could repair the tissues that had been damaged. This was what led to the fourth stage.

Viruses couldn’t live without a host; all these scientists had known that. In their foolishness they had begun to override the mechanisms that made the virulence of the viruses so high. They’d assumed that in doing so the organisms would protect the host, and only the host would benefit. But this was a case of parasitism more than anything. No one was benefitting but the viruses, despite what the shoddy testing had supposedly shown.

Stage four began when the viruses fed into the dying cells, almost as if keeping them functioning through electrical current like some Frankenstein freak show. The body would decay rapidly, but the virus held fast, needing its host to survive, clinging to life by puppeting a meat suit that was no longer conscious outside of primal instinct. The only thing that could sustain these facsimiles of life was blood and spinal fluid. Something about it seemed to rejuvenate them, but only in the sense that they were quicker on their feet, more able to fight.

Sadly, even the people who had forgone the supplement had been caught in the crosshairs of the mess that had been created. That was the thing about airborne diseases. No one was safe.

To make a bad situation even worse, fae eventually began to succumb to the rapidly mutating virus. Their bodies could replenish and heal themselves quicker than the rest and made nice little homes for the viruses, but they too had a threshold and could be exhausted into death. Even they had to find more bodily fluids to give their bodies since they could no longer produce the stuff themselves.

There were different classes of what Derek had dubbed Sprinters – undead fae. Class one was the joggers, fae that were either half human or had a weak tie to magic; they were usually the ones who’d tried to survive without packs or outside of their natural element. They were quicker than the walkers, humans who’d lost the fight, but slower than the runners. The runners were a step up on the undead ladder. Sometimes they were beta weres or fairies, even the occasional satyr – mostly humanoid fae.

The last class was the most terrifying, one Derek never stopped dreading. Whether he called them the overarching Sprinters or prowlers didn’t matter. They were a nasty bunch. See, One of Derek’s greater fears nowadays was becoming one of them.

The prowlers were smart, had somehow held onto one of the more important parts of their consciousness, the ability to plan. They were stealthy and fast, and worst of all they were usually alpha weres or things like manticores, any of the carnivorous fae. Derek doesn’t like to think of the time a Harpy almost managed to kill him. Those cloudy yet bloodshot eyes and its gut wrenching shrieks still had a feature in some of his worst nightmares. He’s been attacked by harpies before but they didn’t have the haunted look in their eyes this one did.

No one really knows how the prowlers came to be, but Derek has his guesses. He knows the reason most of them are alpha were-beings is because of the sick ripple effect that tore their packs from them.

Losing someone who’d been nothing more than an omega to your pack was like stubbing your toe, losing adopted betas was like a punch in the face, but losing your own turned betas - Derek knows that pain all too well.

It was like being eviscerated, like being lit on fire, never able to escape into adrenaline addled numbness. And no matter how fleeting the pain was it was still immense in the moments it existed. What made it worse for the alphas was the way their beta’s bodies still moved and clung to that crude mock up of life. Imagine feeling their deaths a million times over until, finally, you’re too weak – collapsing under the pressure.

Derek has avoided the last stage, but sometimes - when the moon is lost from the sky and he feels like he has nothing else to hold onto - he wonders if he’ll end up like one of the prowlers, a personal pet to the virus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll try to have everything explained in time! Also I should be uploading chapters "frequently" and by that I mean on a weekly basis at least. I have six chapters written already.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So far he has 114 tally marks etched into the wall beside his bed._

Derek counts down the days since he’s found the cabin on his way out of town, nestled in the woods, secluded.

He had clung to Beacon Hills for months after Sunset, but when his pack d… he let go. He didn’t have much left in that town and what  _was_ left tasted like metal, dirt, and ash. It was nothing more than bitter memories and the stench of death.

So far he has 114 tally marks etched into the wall beside his bed. He’s been here just under four months. It’s nice, if you can call a hidey-hole to keep you from dying nice. It serves its purpose. It doesn’t need to be nice, but it is somehow.

He’s managed to save what few personal effects he has left, and he even found a portable gas stove that the owner had kindly left behind when they – well he doesn’t know what happened to them, only that they’re gone for good. Some part of him wishes whoever they are, or were, well.

It’s late when he’s startled from his thoughts. Night has fallen, early as usual, and the world outside is at a standstill. He never realized until now that when he’d wanted quiet he really meant he wanted to hear they way the earth sang naturally. The birds aren’t as talkative anymore.

He hears the trees rustle first. Then a heartbeat that’s faint and steady. And then he hears footsteps on his roof. He shifts reflexively and perches in the corner of the bed, waiting and listening.

Nothing happens. For a second he wonders if this was all a part of one of his elaborately horrifying dreams, but then the doorknob twitches and he hears the metal scrape and slide of something picking at the lock.

He can’t help the snarl that escapes his maw no matter how hard he tries. He makes a mental note to start packing his things. Any longer in this place and something unpleasant might happen. Something  _is_  happening right now, but from the sound of the heartbeat outside he’s guessing it’s just some human he can scare off.

He’s wrong. Except not unfortunately. It’s actually someone familiar. Well, about as familiar as he can get with anyone these days. He really needs to wake up because the footsteps on the roof and the bustling branches should have been a dead give away.

Tree Walker tiptoes into the house with a flashlight in hand, shining the light at the far corner, away from Derek. He whispers nonsense to himself about things left behind but then his heart skips when the light finally lands on Derek’s eyes. They reflect a brilliant blue.

“ _Shit_.”

He doesn’t smell like fear, or a threat, just resignation. Still, Derek steps down from the bed with his hackles raised, chest vibrating softly with his displeased hum.

The man backpedals slowly, “So you live here.”

Derek chuffs in response and stalks closer. Despite his menacing stance he can’t tell if he wants to run them off or keep them in. He decides something closer to the latter and allows himself to shift back. The only thing he hears is a strangled gasp and the sound of the man hitting something.

When he looks up the Tree Walker has backed himself into the door and dropped his flashlight. It points to Derek’s toes, which are a little on the grimy side.

“Holy shit. Holy – oh my god.” He scrabbles for the handle behind him.

“What are you doing here?” Derek starts before he leaves. His voice is rough from disuse, abrasive.

The man freezes. “Wait, you’re not – feral?” He whispers it like he’ll offend.

Derek’s still in beta shift and a little annoyed at the intrusion so he asks again, “What are you doing here?”

Tree Walker has managed to open the door a little and already has one foot out of it. Even though the man’s still facing him Derek has no trouble believing that he could be out of the door and up the nearest tree in a minute or less. “I – I was just looking for supplies. I didn’t know – I’m – I can leave.”

He lets his features relax and his fangs recede. “What did you need that you risked your life to find at night?” He rubs just under his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

The man’s answering gulp is audible, and he still hasn’t closed the door which is a stupid move considering his scent will carry. The prowlers will have a grand time with him if he keeps it open much longer.

He’s managed to get one whole leg out of the door and when he answers his voice is dripping with venom. “What’s it to you?”

Derek growls at the casual threat in the man’s voice. “I’m just trying to figure out if we can trade or if you’re going to come back and steal it.”

Surprise flashes across the visible features and then the man says, “I wouldn’t steal from you.”

“I’ll believe that when –“

“What, pigs fly?” He interrupts.

Derek huffs, “No, when people aren’t dying at the hands of the undead everyday.”

The man’s muscles have tightened but his heart has finally settled into a steadier beat. Derek levels him with a glare, still the same electric blue that he wore as a wolf, and grinds out, “In or out. You’ll lead the prowlers here.”

He stays in the doorway for a minute. Derek almost speaks up when the door finally closes, the man still inside.

“Prowlers?”

Derek doesn’t turn his back to the man, but he does grab the pants he shed in his rush to shift. “The faster ones. Infected fae.”

The Tree Walker grimaces, familiar with the beings. “I just call them ‘stubborn fuckers’ but whatever works.”

He laughs softly despite himself, not loud enough for the other to hear though. “Any reason you thought it was a good idea to look for supplies at night?”

The man pulls his sleeve up and a faint bit of copper and salt dances through the air. “Got into it with someone else and realized I’d run out of balms.”

Derek’s nose twitches in disdain. If others are in the area this won’t be the only time his cabin is disturbed. He was just starting to get comfortable too, but that’s his own fault. He’d told himself not to. “Where?”

He pulls his sleeve back down and flattens the disturbed material, “They’ve been taken care of.”

“Where?” he growls.

The man narrows his eyes, annoyed, but replies anyway, “Probably twenty miles northwest of here. In an abandoned greenhouse. There weren’t signs of anyone else.”

“How do you know?” The last thing Derek needs right now is someone stumbling across  _his_  place in search of this guy.

Tree Walker scoffs, “Because I’m not an idiot. Look, I didn’t mean to barge into your place, but I’ve got things to find.”

“And animals to lure to my house if you leave. You’re gonna stay right here and sit down.”

“Excuse me?”

Derek steps closer and the man flinches, hand inching closer to his holster. He bares his elongated teeth in response, “Sit. Down. I have something for your arm. You leave now and the scent of blood will carry, and if I have to deal with  _them_  I’m coming to find you.”

The man’s face goes pinched and he mumbles out, “Well aren’t you just a bucket of sunshine.”

Derek picks up the flashlight and points it at a chair across the room, waiting for the man to get the hint. He finally lets go of the door, but he doesn’t seem happy about the decision and crosses his arms as he reaches the chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feral the other day?”

Derek raises his eyebrow. He didn’t expect the man to remember let alone use it as a topic of discussion. He pulls the first aid kit from beneath his bed and sets it on the table. “Why did you jump to that conclusion?”

The man smirks and pulls up his sleeve. “Touché.”

Derek lets a claw elongate and pulls it across the makeshift bandage at the man’s arm. When it falls the scent of blood is unmistakable but also masked under a layer of what smells like highly concentrated –

“It’s a red cedar paste,” the man supplies as if having read his mind. “It’s an antibacterial. Last resort when I run out of Neosporin.”

Derek rolls his eyes and rips open an alcohol wipe to remove the balm, “And yet you still went out at night.”

The man lets out a long sigh and fidgets under Derek’s touch. “It's a last resort, not exactly as efficient as Neo. Plus, I was getting a little stir crazy.”

“S’a good way to get yourself killed.”

“I didn’t realize you were concerned for my health. I can handle it.”

Derek growls and maybe even presses into the gash a little harder than necessary eliciting a displeased grunt. “I don’t. What I _do_  care about is what will find my house because of your dead body.”

The man’s face closes off and he looks away. “So you’re cleaning my wounds yourself instead of just giving me Neosporin and sending me on my way.”

He stops short of putting the cream on and lets his shoulders fall as he stares. “Were you listening earlier?”

“Yeah yeah, leading people to your hideout, whatever.”

He clenches his jaw and rubs the paste into the wound before bandaging it with a slap for his troubles. “How you’ve managed to make it this long is a miracle.”

The man pulls down his sleeve angrily and stands, “You have no idea.”

He lifts an eyebrow but before he can respond Tree Walker has his flashlight in hand again and he’s by the door saying, “Thanks for the help.”

Derek was right about one thing. It only takes a minute for him to get up the nearest tree. 

After that the wolf doesn’t sleep much that night, every small creak setting him on edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of slow going in the beginning, but just you wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Derek doesn’t like his odds right now._

It’s been almost two years since Dawn began, eight months since Beacon Hills, and almost four months in this area of the woods. Derek hadn’t intended to stay here this long, and he isn’t exactly excited about staying for the winter months, but by the time he finds a new place, makes sure it’s secure,  _and_  gets settled, the winter would be half over and he’d be dead.

So he stays for the time being. He’s not quite sure why he stays, or what he has to live for, but right now it feels like it’s some sort of penance. His punishment for letting his pack fall apart, punishment for putting them out of their misery and going on without them when he should have been the one to die. And yet he knows he can never atone for his failures. So again, he’s not sure why he keeps going each day. Maybe it’s out of spite. He _is_ pretty spiteful.

Whatever the case, hunting helps burn some of that negative energy – or at least bury it for an hour or two. He has a small stock of smoked meat back at the cabin, but between the way full moons make him feel and the possible injuries he could incur he finds himself out hunting for one more deer before the winter drives them into hiding, or worse, into the hungry mouths of waiting prowlers.

When he steps out of his humble abode he doesn’t lock the door, and not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t have a key. Instead he props a few boards of wood on the door to make it look like no one’s been in or out in a while. Outside the air is damp and laced with the faint decay of leaves that have accumulated on the forest floor as well as the barest hint of tree sap. A few blades of grass peek up from beneath the dead foliage despite the task that it is to do so, but other then that the forest is barren and dim.

Something about the day makes prowling on all fours feel wrong. For once Derek doesn’t feel like being his wolf today, doesn’t have the right mind for it, so he stalks upright and hides amid the trees.

Maybe that was his mistake, staying too close to the trees instead of just going around them. Or maybe he should have just given in and wolfed out so he was closer to the forest floor, better able to see traps. He shouldn’t have let the day cloud his judgment, because that’s how his ankle gets caught in a snare.

His world tilts on its axis and spins until he’s thoroughly disoriented. When he finally gets some semblance of control he formulates a shabby plan and brings his legs close together then curls his stomach in to grab his thighs. Erica used to laugh at him for taking his workout routine so seriously. If only she could see how useful it is now.

He sighs and shakes off the memory, using his legs to stay upright-ish. It takes a lot of energy but he finally gets to where he can reach for the rope. No dice. When his claws come in contact with the rope a minor shock runs through his body sends him reeling backward, falling down into the very uncomfortable position that he started in. He tries to steady his breaths as his body swings like someone’s plaything and wills himself to pull up again even though the blood rushing to his head fogs his abilities. Somehow he accomplishes the nearly impossible and pulls himself up to his legs. He keeps going and stretches to get to the rope, using it to climb, then heaves a sigh when he finally makes it to the branch the snare is wrapped around. Through the burning ache in his muscles he grabs on, barely managing to stay human and in control. He works the last bit of leverage he has and hugs his arms around the branch before swinging his free leg over it too. Admittedly, that takes a few tries and more patience than he has left.

Finally, _finally_ , when he’s managed to wrap himself around the bough, he all but collapses in some bit of relief. He may be in a tight spot but he wasn’t about to make himself easy prey. With a little bit more wriggling, and a lot more precarious balancing, Derek manages to sit up against the trunk with his legs dangling on either side. He’s still trapped though.

He  _could_  just unravel the rope, swing over the bough, and be on the ground, but he still can’t get the rope off his damn ankle. He’s already shocked himself twice and when he tried to wear it down to threads on the branch the tree started to smoke so he stopped about as quickly as he started. Instead, he waits.

Whoever set the trap was expecting something big. They also knew how to magic a piece of rope so the big thing they caught wouldn’t get away. Based on past experience, Derek doesn’t like his odds right now. Somehow he highly doubts this trap was set for game.

~

A few hours have passed when he starts to wonder if the person who set this trap might’ve already died. That would suck, to come this far and die of starvation all because of a magic piece of rope. But, would that be better or worse than dying at the hands of some twisted hunter who’d have no problem using him for all he’s worth? Meat, bones, and all. Somehow starving to death feels worse, at least the latter would be a quicker death.

Derek curses himself for being so stupid. He should have just let it go until tomorrow or taken a different route to hunt. Should have gone wolf so he would’ve had a better grasp on his surroundings.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

He runs his fingers through his hair then tugs at it, letting out a broken breath. Why didn’t he just die like the rest of them? He shakes his head, better to not get into this with himself again, at least not here. It’s starting to get dark. He’d walked at least five miles just to get to this point. Even if he were to start walking back right now, as if he could, he’d be in very dangerous territory.

The Sprinters and Walkers aren’t nocturnal, don’t run on some preset schedule, but they do have the ability to get the jump on people at night. The Sprinters especially. They like to take advantage of everything and anything that can work in their favor. _Assholes_.

“What the fuck?”

Derek snaps his head towards the sound but sees nothing for a moment. Then he finally hears rustling from a tree across the way and a form melts from its branches.

Of course. Of. Course. It’s him, that Tree Walker guy. Derek can’t seem to shake him. Even though, strangely enough, he doesn’t want to. Except right now he’s less than amused and might punch the guy, but at least he knows he won’t die an immensely painful death.

At least – not right away.

Tree Walker looks up and freezes, finally catching wind of the situation. Derek’s blue eyes must be his source of recognition because the figure loosens and sighs, long and loud. “We really need to stop meeting like this.”

Derek’s exhale is quick and sharp, “You really need to stop going out at night.”

The tree walker ascends to the branch nearest him like it’s nothing and sits. “ _You_ need to stop worrying.”

“Not worried. I just had to wait a few  _hours_  until you rolled around.”

The man crosses his arms over his chest but Derek can’t see the face he’s making because the mask is covering his features. “I could leave you here.”

“After I helped you?”

The man scoots until his back is against the trunk. “I never asked for your help.”

“And I never asked to be trapped,” Derek growls.

Tree Walker snorts, “I didn’t expect to trap an angry werewolf, that’s for sure.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “Do you plan on cutting me loose any time soon?”

“What do you say?” he singsongs.

“Now,” the wolf snarls between his fangs.

The man sighs again and then a branch that’s thick and wide grows in the gap between them. He slings his leg across it and hops over before peeling his mask off and smirking. “No manners at all, it’s like you were raise by wolves.”

Unamused, Derek asks, “How long have you been waiting to make that joke?”

“Couple of days,” he answers honestly and without pause. “You’re one of the first people I’ve come across that hasn’t tried to kill me.”

“Take any longer and I might.”

The man chuckles and pulls a knife from his thigh holster. “C’mon, I didn’t  _mean_  to trap you.” He motions for Derek to bring his leg up and somehow the wolf manages to do so without falling. Tree Walker kisses the blade and it lights up in a flash of bright green. He tucks it under the rope and starts cutting.

“What are you?” Derek prods, no finesse. Something about the man says inhuman – aside from the magical abilities.

“Sort of like a dryad – y’know, a tree nymph? I’m mostly human, but I use the little tie to the trees I have to help me survive.” He answers like he says this everyday. Maybe he rehearses the answer in his spare time.

“So that’s how you do it.”

“Do what?” He asks, finishing off the rope.

Derek rolls his ankle and grunts at the sharp stab of pain he receives. He rubs a soothing hand over it. “Move through the trees so smoothly.”

“You’ve seen that?”

He takes his leg off the thick branch beside him and lets it hang again. “When I was out hunting a few times.”

“Hmm.”

A broken and angered howl sounds in the distance, no more than two miles away, and both of the men freeze. Derek had a feeling this would happen. He  _knew_  it was possible, and yet here he is in this position anyway, no way to get back quick enough. God he’s such an idiot, woefully unprepared.

Tree Walker seems to get it and nudges his arm, whispering, “Hey. Follow me.” The tree shifts and the branches noisily arrange into a spiral around the central bough, like a staircase. The man holds out a hand for Derek to lift himself and begins to climb, making no mention of their destination or anything about the fact that he’s _rearranging tree branches like it’s **nothing**_.

“They can get to us in the trees,” Derek hisses unhelpfully, climbing after the man. He’s seen it happen before, watched one wait in the trees to rip a man’s throat out while he was safe on higher ground. He admits that’s kind of fucked up in retrospect – but every man for himself isn’t some sort of joke nowadays.

“Not if I take away the stairs,” Tree Walker says haughtily, cutting into his flashback.

Derek grumbles, “They don’t need the stairs.”

His pace is slow going and he questions if he should try breaking his ankle just to get it to hurry up and heal. Tree Walker keeps going, up and around until they’re halfway up the tree and far above the ground. Another howl sounds, closer this time, and the man puts on his mask. “Yeah, not if you keep walking that slow.”

“I’d walk faster if I knew where we were going.”

“We’re going back to my place.”

“What? There isn’t a place around here for miles.” Derek would know. It’s half the reason he picked the place.

The man smiles, toothy and mischievous. “That’s what you think.” The tree across from them stretches out and links with the one they stand in until a bridge is formed. “If you hold onto me you should be fine. The trees won’t let you fall.”

He grinds his teeth together, unsure of all this trust he’s placing in the stranger, but when the howls sound a few yards away he grasps the hand that’s offered. After that they move across the trees in near silence, pausing only when the prowlers cross their general path, remaining light on their feet despite the heavy thoughts laying in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, just updating (Sept. 30th)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t hear anything back._

The tree house is grand, luxurious even. A porch surrounds the front and leads across to another tree where a set of descending stairs has been dismantled. Even in the darkness Derek can make out the reflective surface that covers the building, hiding it in the forest. It’s hardly necessary though because the house is almost cocooned in a makeshift dome of branches.

Derek crosses the wooden bridge, a bit broken but supported by new boughs, and finds that the inside is no less great. “How?” Is all he finds himself capable of saying.

The Tree Walker turns on an electric candle and sets his mask on the table. “Rich people in California, they never cease to amaze. I found this on accident actually. Someone must have built it out here long before the collapse. The bridge was falling apart.”

He finds himself taking in the smell of the area. It’s a lot like the man, as if he’s managed to permeate every fiber with his scent. Sweet and earthen. His nose twitches as he comes across a box and he almost sneezes. The dryad smiles wryly. “Box of herbs, sorry,” and he picks it up, relocating it.

The outside belies the space indoors and Derek finds himself turning in a circle to take it all in. There’s even a shower. He frowns. Hot showers are a luxury, almost a thing of the past.

The man further communicates this. “Oh that, ha. Don’t get excited. The water tank for that was dried up before I even got here.”

He lets out a sigh and turns to the man. He’s shirtless now and lean, lithe and surprisingly okay looking for the apocalypse. A little on the thin side, but that seems to be more because of the cardio than the lack of food. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost a year.”

Derek narrows his eyes. He’d been here four months and had only gotten wind of the man two months into it. He just nods, not knowing what that should say about his hunting skills.

“Sit down. Let me look at your ankle.”

He pulls his hands from his jacket and does so, but not before saying, “I’ll be fine.”

The man rolls his eyes, which look gold this close to the light, “It’s the least I can do. Let me see it.”

“Fine.”

The man crouches before Derek and places his foot on his knee. After unlacing Derek's shoe and setting it aside he massages his thumbs in the swollen area where the fluid collected and sighs. “Well, at least I know the snare works,” He laughs meekly.

Derek pulls his foot back and growls.

“Okay, that was tasteless.” Tree Walker reaches for his foot again and when he touches the bruised skin his hands light up in that same green hue from earlier. “Sorry, I just – I haven’t been around people in a while.”

Derek rolls his ankle experimentally and while it’s still sore it’s better than it was earlier. He nods his thanks.

“So.” The man stands and dusts his hands off on his pants. “What uh, what’s your name?”

Derek raises his eyebrow at him, “Just under an hour ago you told me not to worry about you and now you want to get to know me?”

The man rolls his eyes and sets a hand on the table, somehow pulling off casual. “That was before I heard the howls.”

He smirks, “Oh, so you want something from me?”

A groan. “G – _No_. I mean, your name sure, but nothing else. I can just call you Sourwolf for the duration of your stay if you’d like.”

“Duration of my stay? I’m not staying here.”

The man takes a step back, eyebrows raised and face pinched. “Uh, you aren’t getting back to your place any time soon and it’s not safe.”

“It’s never safe, and I’m leaving in the morning, not right now.” He pulls his boot back on and laces it.

“If you think I’m taking you back at the crack of dawn, you’re wrong. It’s the end of man, I don’t exactly have much to be awake for so I try to sleep through most of it.” He’s pacing the room and gesticulating while biting his lips. For a second Derek sees… He tells himself it’s not important.

He tests his weight on his foot again and says, “I can find my way back on my own if need be.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Sighing, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Coming from you, the man who looked for supplies after dark.”

“When I thought it was _safe_. I don’t want anything from you all right? I’m offering you a place to stay for as long as you need and then I’ll take you back. I don’t know why you’re getting all defensive or how this even got turned on me.”

The Tree Walker clicks his jaw and works his way to what looks like a pillow nest. He grabs a shirt and pulls it on before grabbing two pillows and a blanket. He shoves the items at Derek’s chest before he can react properly and walks to the other end of the room. He holds out a hand to a day bed that’s tucked in a corner. “You can sleep here. Or don’t, I don’t care. I’ll be over here if you need anything. There are runes everywhere so don’t worry about the windows.”

He turns the switch off on the candle and stalks to his nest and pulls off his boots, which end up on separate ends of the bed, and then jumps into the pillows face first.

Derek fights the urge to sneer and sits on the bed. Without much else to do he takes his jacket off and folds it, then he fluffs his pillows and falls into them. They’re nice, nicer than the ones he’s been carrying with him since Sunset. While his pillows are flat and have little to no support, they still carry the scent of home, the essence of his pack. It’s not much, but sometimes if he closes his eyes he can go back to before. Sometimes he can even hear their voices.

All he hears right now is the faint drip of something in the tree house, the buzz of a few bugs, and the steady but very lucid breaths of the Tree Walker. He frowns and places his arms underneath his head and the pillows. When he speaks it’s quiet, “Thank you.”

There’s rustling from the pillow nest and a long breath before he gets back, “No problem.”

He heaves a long sigh and stares up and around the house. There are glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling, faint and green kind of like the man who inhabits this space. Part of him wonders if these were here before or if the Tree Walker added them, making the space his. His chest clenches at the thought. It’s so easy to lose bits of yourself in the fight; it’s hard to keep the things that have no practical value, that only hold memories. Things without purpose have no place in this world. And yet…

“My name is Derek.” He doesn’t know why he says this, just that it feels like he should.

A small huff comes from across the room. “Nice to meet you Derek. I’m Stiles.” The corners of his lips twitch upward, an odd name for an odd man.

Time passes slowly after that. The world seems to focus in on a single point and everything ceases to move, there are no sounds save the heartbeat across the way that has finally slowed to a steady _thump, thump, thump_. His eyelids flutter closed and his breathing matches the tempo of the other.

~

Long before Sunset Derek had a mental list of all the ways he didn’t want to be woken. Somewhere near the top was to the sounds of screams. He’s not a very heavy sleeper these days, can’t afford to be, so when the distressed wails from an unknown party cut through the grim silence he’s up in under a second.

He’d almost forgotten where he was. For once he wasn’t in his own cabin. Rather than sleeping uninterrupted in his own bed right now he’s going through some hellish sleepover. Tree Walker, or Stiles now, is writhing in his circle of pillows. Derek slides his legs over the edge of the bed and lets his feet fall to the floor in near silence.

A faint glow encompasses the man and the smell of fear hits Derek like a freight train. It strikes him that no matter how many times he’s come in contact with Stiles and the zombies at the same time he never smelled afraid, but now he does.

“SCOTT!”

Derek reaches the side of the nest and a hand swings and barely misses his shoulder. He fights the moving limbs until he can finally grab them and hold him in place. Stiles’ skin is clammy and the air around him is sharp and bitter. It clings to Derek’s skin and burns his eyes. Stiles whimpers and writhes in his grasp and he almost considers climbing over his legs to keep him from kicking so much.

“Stiles. Stiles _wake up_.” He makes a split second decision and grabs his face. “If you keep screaming they’ll hear you.”

“Please, please. Scott no, you can’t do this to me.” Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

He moves his hands to the man’s shoulders and takes a deep breath before squeezing them and letting his clawed thumbs press into the skin.

All at once it sounds like the air leaves the man’s lungs and his eyes fly open, bright with his green aura and with no defining features like pupils or irises in sight. He swats Derek’s hands away and the wolf retreats to a safe distance while Stiles does the same. He’s backed into the corner of his bed with his arms splayed out against the edges. Stiles shakes his head for a moment, taking in laborious breaths like he’s just come up for air.

After a moment he looks up and his face twists, embarrassment kicking in. “S-sorry I just-”

“Don’t,” Derek stops him. “I get it.”

Stiles nods and lets his hands fall.

“Think they heard?”

The man frowns and for a second Derek doesn’t think he understands, but he clears his throat, “No. I put something up for that. A charm.” The last part is a harsh whisper, “Learned that the hard way.”

He watches as the man turns into himself, curling up, while adjusting the pillows to encircle himself. Part of Derek wants to ask and wants to know how he ended up alone when he so clearly needs another. The other part of him doesn’t know if he should care, and why he kind of does. It’s not his business, and it’s not his place.

This time when he gets into bed he takes his shoes off. He’s not leaving right away in the morning anyway and he can afford to sleep in. The breathing across the room doesn’t settle and the heartbeat doesn’t calm. He stares up into the clunky green sky that’s been created above him and bites his lips before saying, “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t hear anything back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of turning this into a two part fic so around chapter nine I will either mark part two or this will turn into a "series". I'll let you know as we get closer! Thank you for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Stiles is walking a very thin line between self-sacrificing and brave._

Derek had been scoping out the tree house while the man slept in. He had found a slew of runes and sigils in each of the rooms he’d been in. Rooms may have been a generous description though, they weren’t that large, they were devoid of any and all function, and the doors were gone, seemingly ripped from their hinges. Most of the furniture had been moved into the main space. It wasn’t much, but it seemed to be enough. There was a bureau, two beds, if you counted whatever that nest thing was Stiles slept in, a table, some chairs scattered through out, a useless television as well as other dead electronics, and a kitchen like area.

Finally, movement rings out from across the room and, after a few seconds of the half state that is waking up, the man looks at him and squints, “I wasn’t expecting you to be here when I got up to be honest.”

“Couldn’t get down from the tree without breaking something.”

That was a lie. If Stiles were like him he’d be able to call him out on it. But, the man isn’t so he doesn’t. Instead he just nods, albeit skeptically, and scrubs a hand up and down his face. “Well, I don’t have a continental breakfast lined up, sorry. I hope granola bars bode well with you,” He gestures vaguely at Derek and extricates himself from the pillows.

“I don’t need anything.”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow. “That eager to leave, huh?”

He rolls his eyes and moves back to the day bed for his shoes. “No, I just don’t need your food. You’ve done enough.”

The man’s face goes tense with pension before he finally says, “Whatever floats your boat.”

Derek shakes his head and pulls on his boots and jacket. He puts the pillows back into the nest across the room and folds the blanket before placing it beside the bed. He watches with forced disinterest as the other man moves with a mix of fluidity that comes with the familiarity of his surroundings coupled with his short jerky movements.

Stiles pulls his t-shirt off and in the daylight Derek can see a plethora of scars lining his back and ribs. All of them claw marks but none of them seeming to belong to any one being. Some look new and pink but others are years old, maybe even older Dawn. He’s grabbed from his thoughts when Stiles quickly grabs a long sleeve, one that’s form hugging but not skin tight all with a cowl neck that he pulls up to his chin before pocketing what looks like goggles.

Last in what Derek assumes is his morning routine is far more weapons than he’d previously thought. They’re all so small that Derek hadn’t even noticed half of them, eyes drawn to the glaring knives that rested on his thighs and the holstered katana at his back. He rethinks his previous assumption that he wouldn’t die a horrible death at the hands of this man and makes a mental note not to turn his back for too long. He obviously isn’t very easy to kill _or_ defenseless.

“Have enough weapons?” Derek’s jaw ticks at the list of potential threats piling up before him.

Stiles looks up from where his rugged yet spindly fingers are flitting over the buckle of his thigh holster and lets out a derisive snort. “Not all of us have claws and teeth at our disposal 24/7.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, practically posturing. “And magic isn’t enough?”

The man smirks, “I can’t tell if you’re threatened and sizing me up or worried that I’m a liability.”

His jaw clenches involuntarily and he turns his gaze towards the door, “Neither. But if I had to pick one, the latter.”

Stiles laughs, full and throaty. If he wasn’t covered in weapons Derek could probably find himself at ease in his presence. “Think what you want, Sourwolf.”

Derek brushes off the comment, lets his arms unravel and extends one towards the door, “After you.”

The Tree Walker cracks his neck and walks out the door, hardly checking his surroundings. Derek wonders, briefly, what it’s like to have such dulled senses that you could walk out without a cursory glance in every direction. The moment passes.

~

Moving through the trees in the daylight is a very different experience for Derek. His guide is a lot less tense though he does keep looking back, maybe to make sure Derek is still there or maybe because a complete stranger has the ability to jump him at any point. Considering this for a moment Derek asks, “Why are you helping me?”

Stiles stops, holding onto a branch as if it were a handrail, and the same searching look is back on his face. He turns away again and walks across the branches. “I hurt you.”

Derek narrows his gaze, he still isn’t thrilled that he managed to be caught by something that’s at least thirty pounds lighter than him, _and it was on accident_. He wonders what the man can do on purpose. “You could’ve left me.”

The man hops to the tree across and watches as the branches connect, waiting for Derek to cross too. “And you could’ve killed me when I broke into your house.”

He’s wondering if he should have. Probably not, he would have been stuck in that trap for good. A fucked up part of him laughs at the kind of instant karma that would have been.

The forest fills the space where their words had been and the only sounds left are those of the few brave birds that still sing, or warn, and the branches that twitch in response to their movements. Stiles has picked up a quicker pace and Derek follows clumsily. If it weren’t for some of his own markers scratched into trees around them he’d think he was being led to his death.

More thoughts concerning the guide ahead of him crop up. Stiles doesn’t seem like the quiet or thoughtful type. His hands twitch at his sides every time he looks like he might say something. He can tell it’s learned, but was it learned out of necessity or something else entirely? Torture perhaps? That could explain some of the scars.

Derek can’t tell why he’s suddenly so interested in learning about the new person. He’d met plenty of new people during his migration. Granted, a lot of those people tried to kill him, but a few of them formed temporary alliances with him.

Maybe that’s all this is, another temporary alliance. Something about the thought doesn’t feel right though, doesn’t feel accurate.

An arm catches him and pulls him from his thoughts and against a body. A hand covers his mouth before he can say anything and he fights the urge to bite as the hand moves away quickly to point to a cabin that’s a few hundred yards away. His cabin.

For a moment he can’t quite understand why the situation warranted those particular actions but then he sees them. There are prowlers hiding in the branches close to the ground, the only ones large enough to support their weight. He thanks any remaining gods for the dryad keeping his bulkier body afloat in the sea of leaves at the tops of the trees.

Stiles lets his arm fall from Derek’s waist and whispers, “What do you want to do?”

His vision is tinted blue and he fights the impulses that are telling him to protect his territory and grinds his teeth. He had already packed a bag with essentials for this very reason, but he’ll be lucky if he can get within twenty yards of it without being made. “What I want is to be able to go into my cabin.”

A long breath brushes across his neck and he finally faces the man. He looks guilty and Derek, feeling childishly angry, kind of wants to hit him. If it weren’t for him he would have been in his cabin and sensed them coming quickly enough to grab his bags and get a head start.

“Do you have a bag stashed somewhere else?”

He narrows his eyes and bares his teeth, “No. My bag is in _there_.”

“Well that’s just poor planning.” Stiles scratches at his jaw with his thumb.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t push you out of this tree.” He inches closer and beta shift distorts his features.

Stiles places a hand square against his chest and holds him back, a lopsided smile in place. “If not for the fact that I saved your life then maybe because the zombies would hear and then come find you.” He slides against the trunk and over to another branch and sits facing Derek, “I have an idea but your everything tells me you’ll probably hate it.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, “Probably. Why?”

“It involves trust and a fight.”

He steadies himself on the bough and lets out a sigh. “And why should I trust you?”

The man shrugs. At least he has the decency to admit the faulty logic. “You don’t have to, but you’ve got to admit that I’ve been pretty helpful up to this point.”

The wolf narrows his gaze, “Yeah, breaking into my house, catching me in one of your traps, so helpful.”

“Be mad all you want but I apologized on both occasions. I think, anyway.” He leans back on the branch to rest, an insouciant air enveloping him.

Derek cracks his knuckles and crouches on the branch, warring the two decisions. He can either leave without any of his things or go in and get them while risking being killed. He caves, “What’s the plan?”

Stiles straightens and his features pull into neat, serious lines. “Thought you’d never ask.”

~

Derek’s having an even harder time understanding his present company now. Stiles is almost naïvely helpful. He doesn’t even know Derek, he’s just _helping_. No questions asked. Or – maybe those will come later. If they do, Derek will simply say he never agreed to anything. Whatever the case may actually be, it’s a little startling. Stiles is walking a very thin line between self-sacrificing and brave and Derek’s having a hard time choosing which side the guy will fall on, or if he even will.

His plan, if Derek can even call it that, is a stupid plan. Really stupid actually, but he isn’t particularly attached to the guy. So, he figures, if Stiles wants to use himself as bait then so be it. But, Derek can’t keep from questioning why Stiles would want to. Subsequently, he wants to know why he’s even asking why if he doesn’t care.

The time for inner turmoil is cut short as they approach the ragtag pack of prowlers. One of them is on the roof of the cabin, peering into the chimney that Derek sealed on the very first day. Apparently that wasn’t what he needed to worry about.

The dryad pulls a hollowed out tube from a pocket at his calf as well as a ball of some sort. He loads the makeshift blowgun and turns his head over his shoulder to Derek, “I’m gonna pull their attention away. Wait a few minutes and scan the trees. I’ll leave stairs to get up the trees closest to the cabin but you’ll have to jump to reach. Wouldn’t want to make it easy for them.” Stiles aims the tube and the ball goes coursing yards ahead of him. As it hits the ground it explodes and a cloud of smoke erupts. He uses the cover and dashes across the trees.

Derek watches as Stiles shoots flashbangs strategically, dipping down while the prowlers are confused and slashing them to bits. Finding that he’d been holding his breath in sick anticipation he lets it out and sucks it back in just as eagerly. Then he scans the area, drops from the tree, and sprints to the house.

Of course, there was one of them already inside. He figured they were all waiting for him to come out, not waiting for him to go in. But it’s never that simple with prowlers. They maintain a pack hierarchy just like the uninfected, though theirs is a lot less about strength and more about the kill. Regardless of the differing motives they still retain a similar level of intelligence, hence the assumed leader that turns around slowly, a lopsided and decaying grin on its face.

Derek beta shifts before he even has time to think and blocks the first two hits with crossed arms. He rakes his claws against the thing’s face but it does little to the beast. Again, he swings his fists, connecting only briefly. Then, it rushes him and flings him back into a wall. Derek slides down it and rolls just quickly enough to dodge a blow that would have caved his skull in. Instead it’s a hit that catches the beast in the wall. Derek kicks the trapped arm and grins when he hears the sick snap. He keeps his momentum, blocks the weak blow that follows, and snaps its neck.

The thing falls with a heavy thud and Derek rushes across the room to grab the axe that’s stashed by firewood that stopped serving a purpose months ago. He barely flinches when the axe connects with the flesh or when the obscene pop rings out as the spine is severed. Screw the unspoken rule, Derek would double tap without it. It’s cathartic sometimes.

He snaps out of it and grabs the backpack from under his bed, shoving a few straggling items in as he moves about the house one last time. Just then, it clicks that there isn’t much noise outside anymore. Something about it doesn’t sit well with him and he pulls the axe from the body in his kitchenette, taking it with him.

The air is laced with the acrid scent of whatever was in the tiny bombs and the field still hasn’t quite cleared. Veils of fog surround the house and they aren’t quelling the feeling in the pit of Derek’s stomach; he’s not sure if _he’s_ using it for cover or if something else is now. He listens in for sounds of the Tree Walker, other prowlers, anything, but the forest is eerily silent.

Derek searches left and right and decides to hop into the nearest tree, climbing halfway up it to gain a bit of perspective. He almost wishes he hadn’t because it’s like a repeat of the last surprise attack he witnessed. The prowler sits in the tree, waiting, and Stiles stalks below, guarded and armed. Does he warn Stiles, or would that throw him off? Get him killed?

He doesn’t think he can manage being responsible for yet another person’s death and live through it, so he keeps his mouth shut but slinks back down the tree. The blood rushing in his ears does nothing but distract yet he makes it to the general area he’d seen.

The ship has already sailed though. Stiles is backed into a tree and there are two things inching closer, one sprinter and one prowler. The scent of blood is dancing through the air, cutting through the rotten sulfur stench of the flashbangs, only to be wrapped up in the smell of dying and already dead flesh. No matter how his life ends, fulfilled and happy somehow or dying underneath a claw, he’ll never be able to shake the smell of death from his memory.

He slides his pack down and lets his claws fall into place again, stalking the stalkers, preying on predators. Stiles catches sight of him but doesn’t make much of show. The minute nod is all Derek needs. All at once the previously still air seems to catch and electrify and hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those fics that's turning out to be longer than I planned so I hope you guys are okay with +20k cause I'm at the 20k mark right now. Sorry!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He misses them._

His previous assessment of the man’s weight may have been an error. It’s either that or Stiles isn’t pulling as much of his weight as he should be.

“You’re an idiot,” He grunts as they tread along the forest floor, three working legs between the two of them.

The man smirks, mouth bloodied, Derek’s pretty sure that his mouth doesn’t have any cuts though. “And yet you’re helping me.”

Derek bites his tongue but more for the sake of keeping his teeth from sinking into other things. “Consider us even.”

Stiles tries to laugh but groans instead and says, “I think we can cut the crap now. Being even would have stopped when I healed your foot.”

He halts internally; the guy does have a point. Rather then acknowledge it he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. There are more important matters at hand. Stiles is bleeding out slowly from his thigh, having been caught by the prowler during the skirmish. His body is littered with other cuts and all Derek wants to do is get back to the stupid tree house without any more trouble than is necessary.

That would involve luck though and luck isn’t a thing that exists anymore. Trouble is everywhere. It’s in the wind that reveals your whereabouts, it lurks in the trees where your back is turned, and it haunts your dreams every night. Reminders flit through the air everyday: _Don’t get too comfortable. Sleeping is a privilege, one that can be taken. Trust no one._

They trudge in silence, only Stiles’ heavy breaths cutting through. After a while Stiles directs him towards a tree where stairs are slow to form the circle around the trunk. He watches as the branches struggle against the bark, pieces cracking off and falling as the arms twist about.

Stiles’ breaths are short and sharp, almost as if it hurts to breathe, and he grips his side, letting go of Derek.  After a moment to catch himself he sits on the bottom branch and starts scooting along the stairs, crabwalking up the tree. “Who knew coach had the right idea,” He hums in surprise.

“I could have carried you.”

The man continues, torn leg thudding against the steps as he works his way up. “I try not to get too dependent on people. Besides, you would’ve made a comment about it.” He shoots Derek a knowing look.

The wolf rolls his eyes, but again the man is right. “You’re going slow.”

Stiles stops and holds out his good leg to keep Derek from coming further, “Hey, cut me some slack. I just saved your ass, alright?”

“Pretty sure I saved yours,” Derek replies haughtily.

“Yeah? Say that to my leg.” And he keeps going, leaving Derek to sulk in his wake. Stiles catches up to the branches and waits for them to form the path behind him.

“What’s wrong with the tree?”

Stiles clenches his jaw. “If you’ll _recall_ I’m not a full dryad, and I’m a little on the weak side at the moment,” He looks down at his leg and back up to Derek pointedly. “Shit gets slow when you’re missing blood.”

“I told you it was a stupid plan,” Derek mutters.

“You didn’t exactly have a better idea at the time.”

 _Again_ , he’s correct. Derek’s starting to find it annoying. Given a little more time he would have come up with something. He scowls at him, watching as he moves at a snail’s pace. “We should have kept walking.”

Stiles groans and sits to throw his hands up, “Says the guy who hates being out at night.”

“It’s not night,” he points out.

“Thank you for that astute observation, Derek. Really appreciate it.” He sighs and begins backing himself up the tree again. “We’re in the tree so I can get my first aid kit for this,” he jerks an arm violently in the direction of his leg, “That way we _won’t_ be out at night.”

Derek looks up to where tiny branches circle a white pack, holding it in place. “You could’ve used this, and you broke into my house instead?”

“No. I found it after.”

He huffs and forgoes the steps, climbing up the old fashioned way to grab the pack. “You can stop,” He calls down. True to his word the pack is newer, barely covered in leaves or bark or droppings. He runs his claws along the edges to free it and tugs it from its resting place. When he comes back down Stiles has created a more even platform for himself to sit on.

The dryad removes his holster and extends it to Derek in exchange for the box. He narrows his gaze but takes the bloodied holster, knives and all. He can’t tell if this is Stiles trusting him or a move to earn his trust.

Derek crouches and smells the leg, rather inconspicuously if he says so himself. It doesn’t reek of infection, which would have been quick in a wound that large, and looks as though it will be fine. Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, having caught him staring and Derek turns his gaze away for a moment. A short tear catches his ears and he turns back to see the man shucking part of his tattered pant leg off and onto the bed of branches.

The man struggles for a moment to press at the gash and clean it so Derek takes the wipes from him to do it himself. It’s quicker for all involved. “This better not become a pattern.”

Stiles looks up at him, an eyebrow quirked in question. “I didn’t realize you’d be staying long enough to see if it would.”

The wolf shrugs. He doesn’t know. He has a lot of questions that are unanswered right now. Most of them center on the man underneath his fingertips, but the more important – in his opinion – have to do with his lack of shelter. He doesn’t have many options in the way of housing, and if Stiles is offering a roof, at the very least, then he’ll take it. He won’t be happy, but he’ll take it.

“It’s not like I have anywhere else.”

The man lets out a dry laugh. “Don’t sound so excited.” He waves Derek’s hands away and steps up, leg still betraying him but cleaner at least.

“Why haven’t you tried healing it?” He’s surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Stiles frowns, “Again, weak. If I can barely move around branches on a tree what makes you think I can knit a gash this big back together?”

At least there’s one limit to the man. He’ll keep it in mind. “Don’t have a potion for that?”

“Not a witch,” he holds a hand out for the holster and straps it onto his other leg hastily. “But, lucky for you, I did know one, so this next part should only take a sec.”

He climbs up a few branches, slow and awkward in comparison with his former fluidity in the sea of leaves. Derek can’t quite see what he’s doing, but nothing about the situation screams danger so he doesn’t stress it. A few seconds later and the tree is twitching, top branches snapping violently against the ones from trees across to form a bridge. It’s nothing like the way they form when Stiles wills it.

The dryad steps back down, shakier and a pale. If Derek thought he was ghastly before it’s nothing compared to now. He shudders and looks up at Derek, bent over. “Okay-“ He huffs, out of breath. “I’ve got nothing left. That was it for today on the magic front.”

“What exactly was _it_?”

Stiles smirks and pulls himself upright, “Failsafe. We have a path back to base. Gotta move quick though. It only lasts about an hour and it’ll deteriorate behind us.”

He looks up and out of the trees to follow the path and grabs Stiles’ arm to sling around his shoulder, “Then let’s go.”

~

Stiles is laid out in his pillow nest looking up at the ceiling where his faint green constellation sits. His arms are folded behind his head and his leg is propped up. Around the central room a few battery-operated candles are lit and the wind brushes though the trees encasing the house, whistling against the windows.

Night has fallen and Derek has taken to examining all of the items he managed to grab. He has a fair amount of the smoked meat he’d managed to make – though not enough to last him more than a month as well as some other food items he’d collected over the past few weeks. There are a few changes of clothes, probably half of his wardrobe when he thinks about it, and two water bottles. He smirks, the water bottles with the filter built in were probably one of his smarter steals. They save him a lot of time and he doesn’t have to bother starting a fire to purify his water.

He also scooped up his pillow before he ran. It’s a little bit dirty from being fastened to the top of his bag, but it’s still all right. It survived the journey, and much worse than this trek through the trees. Reaching inside the pillowcase he pulls out a picture, the only one he has nowadays.

Erica and Boyd are smiling, each with an arm wrapped around the other, and Isaac has on one of his more daring grins. He’d been feeling confident that day and his chiseled cheeks are practically sucking up all of the camera’s focus. Derek had been smushed into the middle of the group and despite the fact that he’d told Erica over and over that he didn’t want to take the picture he still smiled.

Derek sighs and rubs a thumb over the corner gingerly. The picture is crinkled and there are smudges from when it came in contact with water a couple times, but it’s still perfect. They were perfect. Derek knows that the pack had its flaws and that he wasn’t the best alpha at the start, but near the end, right before the world had gone to shit, they were a pretty great team. He misses them.

Stiles stirs from his resting place and winces, a hiss cutting through the silence. Derek quickly tucks the picture back in its place and stands, meeting the dryad in a few long strides. The man looks up and smiles sheepishly, “Sorry. My leg was falling asleep and I figured I should check and see if that was because it was dying or if I’m just an idiot.”

“Just an idiot,” he snips, falling to his knees beside the bed. Stiles juts his bottom lip out and crosses his arms while looking Derek up and down. He sticks his tongue out and turns his head away.

“You can go back to your corner Sourwolf. I’m good."

Derek is a mess of fractions at the moment. One part of him wants to bolt, get as far away from here and this man as possible. Another part wants to help the dryad, and maybe even stay with him in his, admittedly pretty cool, tree house. The rest of him would like to examine some of the new feelings that are popping up. The only things Derek has managed to feel in the past few months are anger, irritation, apathy – ha – and rage. Maybe some regret, but that was always there. He’s not going to examine the newest additions, interest and a smidgen of concern.

He rolls his eyes, “Just let me help you.”

Stiles scoots away from him. “Listen, don’t feel obligated to help. I feel like that’s the worst kind of help.”

“I don’t feel obligated. I just don’t feel like listening to you piss and moan all night.”

The man wrinkles his nose in upset; he looks younger this way. “I stand corrected. _That_ sounds like the worst form of help.”

Derek closes the gap between them and pulls the man to the middle, eliciting an indignant squawk. He bats away the hands that resist him and pins the dryad with a glare. “Quit it.”

The man lets out a petulant huff but obeys. Derek smirks, having won, and takes the pile of pillows, arranging them along the man’s injured leg to keep it elevated but also comfortable enough to keep him stationary.

He leans away to examine his work. “Better?”

Stiles bites his lip and looks down at the injured leg. He nods slowly and looks up, “Yeah. Thanks.”

He shrugs the gratitude off and moves on to more practical things. “Do you have any pain killers?”

The dryad raises an eyebrow, “Why, do I look like I need them?”

He clenches his jaw. “I assumed with a gash-“

Stiles waves his hands to cut him off, “Don’t assume. I’ve been through worse.” He settles his back into the nest and mumbles the last part, probably more to himself than anyone else. “Trust me on that.”

Derek doesn’t push it and turns away briskly. He treads around the perimeter, turning off the candles one by one until the darkness encases them and their bubble of silence. Only time will tell whether or not this is a path worth traveling down. He hopes that it is. There will be little time to find an alternate route if he gets too far down this road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter ten will signify the end of part one! After that you and I will be moving into a new section of this story where our lovable assholes are a bit more nomadic.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Derek can’t bring himself to sleep again._  
>  ~  
> Updating again because I want this fic finished so I can write a hella cute tinyfic I've been thinking about.
> 
> ALSO. There are some warnings before you start reading this chapter. They shouldn't spoil anything big for you, but incase you don't want to be clued in I'm putting them in the end notes. One of them is a bit more serious than the others imo so I recommend you take a look.

_Derek rushes Isaac in past the door and shuts it behind them quickly. He pushes a bureau over the entry as well as any other heavy items he can get his hands on. Isaac lets out a pitiful whimper and slides down the surface behind him, thudding to the floor._ _His hands are stained in blood and his clothing has been torn. His body is racked with shivers and his breathing is off – wheezy almost. Derek slides down next to him, fae and people alike throwing their virus riddled bodies at the door behind them. The windows have already been boarded but hands still crash through and grab at anything they can reach. Nails are torn from their resting places on the rapidly decaying hands but they keep on, undeterred, streaking blood across the white walls._

_“Isaac I need you to hold on,” Derek hisses while tapping at his cheeks to keep him awake._

_His eyes are going unfocused and his wounds aren’t healing properly. “Der-Derek. P-pl.”_

_His eyes flit over every aspect of the man’s face and he drags him closer. Isaac’s eyes flash rapidly between beta gold and human blue. “What is it Isaac? C’mon, c’mon.” He digs his fingers into Isaac’s shoulder and shakes him._

_Blood has started to seep from his mouth, but it’s too dark, almost purple and filled with pieces of flesh. Derek fights to keep what little is in his stomach down and grits his teeth. He can’t do this. Not again. He **can’t**. “Isaac, Isaac please. Remember what I said? Huh, do you remember?” He pleads as he rubs at the beta’s temples._

_His eyes loll back and forth, snapping into focus for a second. Isaac blinks and a weak smile forms, “Yeah. Yo-you said we’d – we’d finally -”_

_Glass shatters across the room and some of the boards start to creak and puff out dust from the strain. Derek shakes Isaac to keep him alert again and scoops him into his arms, moving to the basement. There’s a tunnel out, but he can’t afford to move Isaac around so much right now, and heaven only knew what would be waiting for him on the other side of the tunnel._

_Isaac groans and a clawed hand shreds through Derek’s shirt where he’d been holding on. His teeth push out of his gums slowly, purple blood streaking the now exposed canines, and his eyes flicker in and out of beta state again. “Derek,” He growls, suddenly a little more lucid. “Derek. Kill me. **Kill me Derek**.”_

_His eyes widen in horror. “Shut up! I’m not killing you Isaac. Not you too.”_

_Tears fall from the man’s eyes and he reeks of fear, of anguish, of everything else in between. “Plea-please. Everything,” He groans and his back arches up and out of Derek’s cradled arms, “Hurts. It hurts. Derek please.”_

_One of the boards upstairs is broken and he can hear the tell tale scrape of clawed extremities clacking against hardwood. He sets Isaac down and slams the metal door closed, swinging a bar in place across it. He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls. He’s running out of options and he’s weak._

_Losing Boyd was bad enough, but then Erica went on her self-sacrificing mission to make up for it – as if it were her fault he’d been attacked by some sick rogue wolf. She’d begged Derek to let her go, and he fought it up until the last second before she left. He’ll never be able to wash the feeling of losing her off his skin, and so close to losing Boyd. He won’t make it if Isaac dies too._

_Claws screech against the metal door and Derek flinches back into action. Isaac is writhing on the floor and his body is breaking out. He’s drawing blood, clawing behind his ears in an effort to cover them. His eyes flash up to where Derek is, crazed and wide, “Kill – me. Derek. You need to kill-”_

_Something is throwing itself against the door, screeching. There's the added hell of claws scraping and sliding on the metal - audible agony incarnate. The bar begins to rattle and jump under the attack and Derek's_ _heart is in his throat. The wound from his other two beta's deaths is too raw. He can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, he -_

_“DEREK!”_

~

“Hey, Derek. _Derek_ ,” a voice whispers harshly.

His hand snaps forward to grab the person touching him, instinct kicking in, and he can hear the moment their breath catches in their throat. Derek peels his eyes open slowly, chest heaving. His skin feels too tight and he needs a shower. Would kill for one right now just to get the sweat and fear off of himself.

He registers that his hand is still clamped around Stiles and lets go, backing into a sitting position. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Stiles sucks in a long breath and shakes his head, “No. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have – I know it’s different for you guys. Touch and all. I just figured I should wake you up. You did the same for me.” He looks down at his wrist and rubs it ruefully.

“Didn’t have to.”

The man gives a sad smile in return. “There are a lot of things I don’t have to do, but you’re here now so I might as well.” He slips off the bed favoring his better leg. Before Derek can get his wits about him and move to help Stiles to his nest of pillows the dryad makes it.

Derek can’t bring himself to sleep again. Nights like this, before Sunset when he had dreams about the fire, he’d go out and run until his legs went numb and he couldn’t go on. He can’t do that now, and he has a feeling that doing pull ups and push ups, or anything else to get his extremities to burn like that, is completely out of the question with his roommate.

Except. Stiles seems equally restless. At first Derek thought it was merely because his leg was sore and he couldn’t get comfortable, but he doesn’t seem to be having any trouble moving – at least not too much. He hears him sigh and flop his arms into his pillows and a familiar silence stretches out between them. He can tell Stiles wants to fill it.

He does. “Hey,” a whisper comes in. “Are you – asleep?”

“No.”

More silence for a moment. Stiles flings the sheet that was draped over his body away and stretches out for a candle, turning it on in one swift flick of his piano fingers. “I can’t sleep.”

Derek snorts, “I can see that.”

Stiles forces himself up to sit at the chair near his bed and stares off into the corner Derek is situated in. “No I mean – I.” He sighs and rests his head in his hand. “I had one too,” he says in a smaller voice.

In the beginning Derek had thought living had been his sentence. That not dying had been the punishment handed down by the gods to him. But, then the nightmares came, and he had added time on his sentence. Time he used to escape his feelings and troubles that had been morphed into painful reminders. All he can bring himself to say in response is, “Yeah.”

“What do you usually do?”

Derek pushes the blankets away from his body and lets his legs fall off the side of the bed. “What do you mean?”

Stiles lifts his head from his hands to wave them about. “When you have one. What do you do?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I can’t do what I used to do anymore.”

The dryad purses his lips. “What did you used to do?”

The wolf huffs. He didn’t realize admitting he was awake meant playing twenty questions. “I used to run, or work out.”

“Oh.” If Derek were a little bit more awake he’d say that sounded like disappointment.

He doesn’t really care, at least not right now, but he feels obligated to ask the same. “What about you?”

Stiles looks up and bites his lips, humming softly as he picks something. “To be honest. Nothing. Unless it’s a bad one and I have a-“ He stops, eyes widening for a moment. He clears his throat and brushes past whatever thought he had, “I just try to remember something good. I try to hold onto it and sleep.”

“Does it work?”

A bitter laugh follows his question quickly. “No. No it doesn’t.”

Derek finally slides from the bed and plops down in a chair beside the man. “Is that why you go out at night?” Derek leads but he already knows.

“Sometimes,” the man admits.

~

Derek doesn’t have nightmares often, and he thanks deaf gods for their mercy because Stiles hasn’t been spared. It hasn’t been long, but Derek feels like he wakes Stiles from a dream almost every night.

It’s the same every time. He’ll either be awake or be woken by Stiles screaming for his unknown friend Scott. Derek will tread carefully to the man’s side and wait a moment for the faint green glow encompassing him to die down and he’ll reach out and touch. Stiles stopped flinching away from his hands after the first week and a half, but he still doesn’t wake up right away. Each time Derek will have to take his shoulders into his hands and shake or grab his face and yell his name, and each time Stiles will apologize. Derek tells him not to every time but he does regardless. And when neither of them can sleep Stiles will speak in a low sonorous tone about the trees and nature and how it's the only beautiful thing left.

As the time passes Derek finds the prospect of leaving less and less likely and less appealing too. At first he tells himself that he stays because of the lack of shelter, but on a perimeter check of the woods they frequent they find an abandoned house that hasn’t been touched in months. Derek complains there’s too much to be done in order for it to be acceptable and Stiles offers to help, magic and all. Still he declines and Stiles shoots him knowing looks.

Then Derek tells himself he stays because the winter is too harsh and hunting in pairs is much more efficient. Tradeoffs and what have you. But Stiles offers to give him some of the magic’d rope he’d made along with a knife to cut it, if need be. But Derek turns him down again. Magic isn’t really his territory.

Stiles eventually stops pressing the issue. The unspoken offer for Derek to stay as long as he want hangs thick between them, but Derek swears to himself that he’ll find a place. The thing is, he stopped looking about a month in.

There’s something to be said about their routine. It works for Derek, it keeps him grounded. And having someone there on the full moon, that has no problem going out at night to watch his back, is nice. The presence of another person is comforting, and while he and Stiles have a long way to come in terms of communication they still work well together.

~

“It’s okay if you want to stay Derek.” Stiles says one morning. He’d gone out before Derek had gotten up and he has something behind his back. His leg was better now, but there was a nasty scar from where he had to wait for his power to refuel before he could heal it.

Derek sneers and rubs a hand down his face. “You think I want to stay here?”

The man snorts, “Oh, I know. I have the worst hideout of them all right? Why would you stay here?”

He’s made it a point to ignore most of the things that come out of Stiles’ mouth now. “What do you have in your hands?”

“The reason you stay. Because I’m awesome and sneaky.”

He rolls his eyes and stands, stretching upward and letting his back pop. “Neither of those things are true.”

Stiles presses him with a look. “Really? Then how come I went back and got some of the stuff you couldn’t get when you left.” He pulls the portable gas stove from behind his back and wiggles his shoulders.

Derek raises his eyebrows, “You went out at night for _that_?”

He hums and places it on the table. “Not night, pre-sunrise. And yes.”

“When it was dark.”

“Don’t start with this again.”

Derek crosses his arms, “They could have killed you.”

Stiles brings his hands up, palms facing the ceiling. “Well they didn’t and now I can actually cook some of the meat we get instead of smoking it to death. I’m tired of jerky.” He sticks out his tongue and scrapes it against his teeth dragging it back in.

“You need to stop going out at night alone.”

“Thank you Stiles for getting my stove that I’ve been talking about for two weeks. It was cool how you dealt with the stench of a decaying body just to get this _and_ washed it so it wouldn’t smell,” he mimics Derek’s voice, deeper than necessary.

Derek’s breath stutters. He’d almost forgotten about the prowler he’d gone through that day. The blush creeping up on his cheeks can’t be explained by that thought though. No, it probably has something to do with the fact that Stiles went out of his way to do something for Derek.

The wolf still didn’t understand why he did it. He thought at first it was for a sense of accomplishment, a way to feed his ego or something. But every time Derek tried to call him on it or thank him he’d shrug it off. He was weird, Derek decided.

“Yes, Stiles, thank you.” The dryad freezes in the middle of his own monologue and smiles. Derek glares at him. “You’re still an idiot for going out alone.”

Stiles watches him move in silence for a moment before saying, “Sometimes it’s like you care,” but when he said it this time the teasing tone was absent. Instead curiosity hung in its place.

“I couldn’t get down from here without you,” was the lie that came out in place of normal human emotion. Derek could get away with that though. He wasn’t human. Not entirely.

The man nods, slow and careful, still observing Derek with more scrutiny than usual. “Yeah. Well I’ll teach you some time. Wouldn’t want you to get stranded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings include:  
> \- Blood and gore mentions (zombies are gross as hell)  
> \- Hints at assisted suicide (recollection of the plea, not the actual scene depicting it)  
> \- Nightmares


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _His nightmares had gotten worse._  
>  ~  
> We're getting close to part twooooo!

Since their talk Stiles had made it a point to work out some runes on nearby trees to help Derek get to and from base without his help. Both of them knew Derek had little trouble climbing down, no matter how much Derek claimed he couldn’t, but it took longer. He has to sit through a few hours of Stiles teaching him about runes, and while he had missed learning about new things it was still under poor circumstances.

This time it wasn’t because of the state of the world. At least not directly. It was one of the ripple effects. The man across from him had been tense for the better part of the week. His nightmares had gotten worse, and when he woke up now he didn’t talk. Stiles would retreat to a loft in a side room and sit, looking out the window. While Derek was never one to discredit the wonders of silence there were some kinds that were more dangerous than others. Silence on important issues was not something he tolerated, but this issue most likely revolved around death. However, Derek hadn’t been forthcoming when it came to _his_ nightmares, so how could he expect that Stiles would be if he asked?

Despite that, he still felt the need to try, but Stiles had frozen up and Derek could practically hear the crash of the dryad’s heart against his ribcage. Stiles had looked at him with narrow and beady eyes before saying he’d be back later, that he had things to do.

Things to do. That was rich. If there was anything Stiles had to do, Derek had to do it too. But, Derek didn’t have to worry – much. Stiles had come back, shivering and red nosed, and with plenty of small game. He’d placed his haul on the table and trudged up to his lofty perch to stare into oblivion.

It was days later, days of Stiles being short and snippy, and the situation hadn't gotten any better. So there they were, sitting together, going over runes and avoiding the issue. Stiles with his hands more terse then Derek had ever seen them, with his amber eyes now a dark and focused mahogany. Derek looked him over, more irritated than anything now. The man’s emotions had been pouring off of him like rushing waterfalls for days and Derek was practically drowning in it.

“Stiles.”

The man flinches but keeps speaking, where to put his palm, when to use blood – if it was ever a dire situation, when to draw a rune if there wasn’t one already in place.

“ _Stiles._ ”

“What!” He snaps, hands clenching into tight balls.

Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Stop.”

His face follows, closing off. “W-You _asked_ me to show you this.”

He scoots his chair closer and rests his elbows on the table Stiles had been drawing on in charcoal. His eyes are no doubt a fierce blue, one he hasn’t directed at Stiles with so much malice in a while. “I’m talking about whatever is wrong.”

Surprise flashes across the dryad’s face but he shuts it down, features going darker than before. “I can’t just shut off my emotions Derek.”

“Then do something with them.”

He brings his hands up but clenches them again. “Like _what_? I was just teaching you about runes was I not?”

Derek sighs, he very rarely has patience for back and forth like this, even less of it now. “And you told me not to use basal emotions like anger to power them because they’d fail.”

Stiles is a ball of coiled tension right now and Derek is trying to decide if he needs to move out of the way when he snaps or if he’s going to be the board for him to bounce back from.

“Fine.” Stiles pushes his chair back forcefully and starts to walk to his hiding place. There’s no other word for it now, Derek sees it for what it is.

He cuts him off. “No.”

The man’s eyes light up in fury, but he has no weapons close to him other than his hands. “Derek, I suggest you move.”

“Or?” He keeps forgetting that they’re equals in height. No matter, he could still take him in a match of strengths.

The man raises a hand that’s surrounded by a weak green hue and Derek reacts in kind, canines dropping and face morphing into a harsher physique. Stiles sets his jaw in a terse line but his eyes are hinting at doubt. His hand falls, human and pale again. “Just. Let me.”

“Give me a reason.”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise, “I shouldn’t need one! This is _my_ house. Not yours, _mine._ ”

Somehow he knew that would be a bargaining chip, he just hoped it would be later rather than sooner. He steps aside and whispers venom into the man’s ear, “Then stay here alone, in _your_ house, with _your_ problems that only effect _you_.”

He grabs his thicker coat, one he’d managed to pilfer on their journey farther out than he’d ever been able to get on his own. The bag he packed is still in his corner and he takes it too. Does it really matter that it’s winter? He should stop using that as an excuse. He’s been through worse.

~

Snowflakes dance across his field of vision. It’s interesting how they still manage to weasel their way into the heart of the tree, dusting the branches lightly. There’s something satisfying about all of the untouched snow down below. He doesn’t even have to walk through it and break it now, though the prospect is tempting. He wouldn’t even get that cold, especially if he was his wolf.

It’s too dangerous to do that though. Sadly. He would if he wasn’t so on edge, if he thought he could manage to keep one ear turned towards danger. On the flip side Derek finds that it would be equally satisfying to embrace the danger and hunt something right now. To spill its blood across the untouched snow. Crimson dots would stain the surface and seep down below it, slowly. All would know what happened there.

He shakes the thought from his mind. That’s another path that could bring trouble. The pure snow is both a blessing and a curse. It tells him that nothing has passed in a while, but warns him that all will know that he has if he touches it. It’s not really worth it for the twenty minutes of fun. At least not while he’s alone.

He blows a thin line of air and watches it coalesce into a thick fog. Yet another satisfying treat that the winter brings. Everything about him and the world is so much more tangible and for a second he can believe that he actually has a rope to hold onto, one to pull himself out of this hellmouth. But then his condensed breaths fade, just like all of this will, and he remembers that this is his forever now. The world’s path shifted over two years ago and while the survivors _could_ build it back up, it’s not likely, at least not this soon.

A branch quivers somewhere above him and he snaps to attention. There’s a shadow lurking around his field of view and he feints, lets it believe he won’t follow. That’s when he snaps his hand out to the thing and reels it in.

He growls low and throaty when he meets those whiskey eyes. “ _You?_ ”

Stiles pushes his hand away and pulls off his mask. Somehow his ears are still bright red even though they’ve been covered. “Yes, me.”

Derek turns his attention back out to the unmarked snow. It has a better effect on his mood than the person beside him. “How exactly did you find me?” _That way I can make sure it doesn’t happen again._

Stiles creates a better seat for them but Derek doesn’t take it. The dryad frowns and crosses his legs. “You used the runes. They’re mine. I can feel it when it happens, I just had to find the right tree.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him and lets his eyes sweep over the man again. That explains why he’s gotten so red. He didn’t know which tree, just that it was one of them. He wonders if he draws the rune instead of activating an old one if he could get away with going unnoticed.

“Look. When I said –”

“I get it,” Derek stops him. He really doesn’t need to hear it.

Stiles turns so that his whole body is directed at him and stares, hard. “No. No you don’t. But that’s my fault.”

Derek tilts his head and finally forces himself to look him in the eyes. He’s met with cold determination but also fear. Again it strikes him that Stiles must be younger than him, he looks it now. He sighs and moves his hand to get the man to continue.

Stiles settles into a more comfortable position against the tree. “That place. It – It belonged to me and my pack.”

 _Pack_. Derek looks at him again but the dryad holds up a hand.

“My friend, Scott, he was an alpha. Turned by some freak accident when we were just kids and playing in the woods,” Stiles smiles fondly but his eyes get darker. “When the world went to shit, I had already found this place. I brought him, his beta, and his mate here.”

Pushing aside the fact that Stiles was okay with him is because he _knew_ about wolf packs and was a part of one, Derek takes a moment to work out how exactly he missed this. There weren’t any signs of wolves having lived there.

Stiles continues after rubbing his face. “It was okay for the first few days. I actually thought we’d be safe. But when we were out scoping the area Kira got hurt. We couldn’t save her, the wound was too big for me to heal.” His skin has taken on a sickly white glow.

He looks over at Derek, to gauge the situation probably, and the weight of his emotions settles on Derek’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Stiles turns back, satisfied that he’s listening. “It got worse after that. I somehow had to fill the role of second _and_ emissary. It was messy. We weren’t ourselves without Kira. She kept us smiling, gave us hope.” Stiles wipes at his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath.

“Scott was on guard all the time after that. Didn’t let himself sleep, probably couldn’t. I was – I didn’t have the kind of foresight Scott did. I couldn’t hear the things he and Liam did. I couldn’t smell the things they could. I made up for it in other areas, but it still left me at a disadvantage.”

Derek moves to the platform and faces him. He hates how parallel their lives are. How he feels like he’s looking at a mirror of his own worst pains right now. Stiles smells like electricity – sharp and focused and like burned wood that got caught in his path. His eyes look hazel, but the green isn’t natural. Doesn’t really belong.

The dryad closes his eyes for a moment and the green washes out, leaving unguarded amber and tears hovering at the brim. “I didn’t see the hunters that had been tailing us. Got caught in the fray and couldn’t walk or defend myself. And Scott,” He huffs, another twisted smile in place, “Scott told Liam to take me back. Told him to keep me safe. And I told him no. I told him to let me stay. That it’d be okay. I’d be fine. I tol- I told him to come if he wouldn’t let me stay.”

Stiles drags a long breath in through his nose. “Liam hadn’t even been a beta for more than a year when he became alpha. I’m sure he was ready, Scott was his mentor after all, but it wasn’t supposed to happen – not like that.”

Derek clears his throat. He doesn’t know if he should say something, ask questions, or just listen. He barely even wants to be there as it is. The whole conversation makes him feel like shedding his skin.

The dryad pushes himself up and looks out at the snow with Derek. His voice is quiet. “I never forgave myself. I built walls, literally and metaphorically. I shut Liam out and he left to go find his family, start a new pack.” Stiles brushes his hands over his arms and sighs again. “He tried to get me to come, but he just reminded me of what I’d done. It only took a month and a half for everything to fall apart.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Derek tries to assure him.

Stiles looks down at him, “Yeah, I didn’t.” He pulls his mask from his pocket. “If I were a wolf I’d have blue eyes too.”

His gaze sharpens but the dryad looks away. The tree shifts for him without hesitation and the man shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m not telling you this because I expect you to come back. It’s just that sometimes I lose focus and I fall back into – into what I try not to feel. So, if you feel like putting up with that, come back. But, if you don’t then I don’t blame you.”

“Why do you stay there?” Derek can’t imagine having stayed in the route of all of his troubles. Beacon Hills lost its appeal quickly.

The man shrugs. “It’s the last piece of Scott I have.” He pulls his mask on and walks out onto the bough that leads across to the other tree. Stiles looks back and waves a hand, short and sweet, and then he’s off – flitting from branch to branch in ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing a vampire AU where Derek and Stiles meet throughout time and I'm loving it so stay tuned if you aren't freaked out by talk of blood and junk


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _He doesn’t know where or if he fits into that plan._  
>  ~  
> Sorry this has taken so long guys! I've been pretty busy over here in the real world. Just a heads up, I might be posting a little more slowly, but hopefully not.  
> Please enjoy two stubborn nerds.

Derek doesn’t go back right away. It’s not that he’s upset, or that he’s sulking. Having space and time to himself again is nice. And Stiles probably needs it too. Also, he doesn’t mind making Stiles sweat it out. He _was_ being an ass the whole week. He does go back eventually. Being alone for long periods of time doesn’t sit with him the same way it used to. But, it's only when the sun starts its decline in the sky that he moves towards the house, only having to get onto the ground once or twice. He kicks through the snow when he does and it’s every bit as satisfying as he thought it would be.

Before going in he waits a few more moments and listens. He doesn’t get much except for the occasional sigh and the steady beat of the dryad’s heart. Derek looks up at the dome of branches, some of them bare, and watches as the snow sneaks in and then slides off the house – like some invisible field surrounds it. A lot has been done to this place. He hadn’t really thought much of it. That was a good way to stay alive. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was as much a way for Stiles to keep himself in as it was to keep others out.

He turns the knob and opens the door carefully and places his bag on the daybed in his corner. Stiles sits up automatically, mouth slack and eyes wider than usual, and rises but stops two steps into Derek’s direction. He forgoes his course, gives a simple nod, and backtracks to his nest.

Derek pulls off his jacket, watching him. “You should really lock the door.” Being in the trees doesn’t mean anything. If Stiles found the place someone else easily could.

“That’s what you chose to say when you got back?” Stiles looks both amused and annoyed. It’s pretty much his resting state now that Derek is there.

The wolf shrugs, bending down to pull off his boots. “You didn’t want to talk about it.”

“But I _did._ ”

He falls onto the bed and rests his hands on his knees. “What do you want me to say? ‘Sorry your friend died’? We all lost someone. You have to work past it. There’s not enough time to dwell.”

Too blunt for Stiles’ tastes, he sneers, “Why did you even come back?” His tone is all bitter accusation. “Don’t even blame it on your lack of shelter or the weather. _Why are you here_?” Stiles is standing again, no longer timid, and he strides to the bed where Derek sits.

Derek fires back with, “Why do you let me stay?”

Stiles laughs, “Like you’d leave if I told you to go.”

“I would.”

The man’s chest deflates and he backs up a step. “Derek, why are you here?”

He stands, somehow looming over the man, and observes him. His pupils are focusing, his hands are clenched but his body is loose, and his heart is rabbit fast. “I’m here because it’s cold outside.”

Stiles lets out a whoosh of air, like he’d been holding his breath. His body catches up to his hands and goes rigid but he lets out a laugh, “And when it’s warm I guess you’ll be leaving.”

“Yes.”

The man flinches and nods, turning back to his nest.

“You should too,” Derek adds.

That gets him to stop. “What?”

He sighs, “Leave. You need to.”

“I need – _what?_ Why would I leave? My house is fine. I have what I need.”

Derek gives the room a calculating once over. “No, you don’t.”

Stiles turns back and crosses his arms over his chest. “What exactly am I missing?”

The wolf falls back onto the bed. “Peace of mind.”

“Oh and you have peace of mind in a world like this?” His eyes are clouded with green again.

Derek smirks. “I never said I did, but I didn’t stay in the place that cost me everything I had.”

Maybe that was a low blow. It didn’t feel like one when it came out of his mouth, but Derek was always a bad judge of character when it came to words and people. Stiles’ face turns three different shades of red before he rubs his temples and whips one of the hands down to say, “I’m not _you._ ”

He lays back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. The ceiling isn’t radiating off cinnamon and lemon because it’s angry at the world. “The funny thing is, we’re pretty similar in a few key aspects.”

“You are so – _so!_ ”

“I’m so what, Stiles?” Derek lilts.

The dryad rushes to his side and shoves at his arms. He wasn’t startled. The man’s hands most certainly didn’t cause Derek’s skin to rise from the chill. “Annoying! You’re fucking annoying, and _rude_ , and a **_brute_**.” Each adjective is punctuated with another push and after a moment Derek finally starts to push the hands away.

He growls low in his throat, but the man probably can’t even hear it. “Then tell me to leave.”

Stiles is caught by his wrists and he’s shaking Derek with the force of his tantrum. “Agh!” He rips himself away at last and rubs his wrists. “It’s not that easy.”

“Nothing is. _Say it_ Stiles. Say you want me to leave.”

His hands tighten around their resting place on his arms. “Maybe I don’t want you to!”

Derek’s eyes widen but he reigns his facial expressions in, trying his best to keep them icy and disinterested. Stiles’ eyes are wide too, like he’s just had a revelation, and his heart rate is through the roof. The wolf stands and pads to his general vicinity, and the man puts his hands on his hips in defiance. His body screams fight but his face looks lost.

“I will leave when you want me to,” Derek says again.

Stiles’ face scrunches up and he lets out a whine, “ _Why_?”

He takes a deep breath and replies quietly, “Because I – because I know what it’s like when no one listens.”

The man shakes his head, “No. Why are you staying?” His voice is nothing more than a pleading whisper. “You’ve done it twice. Surprised me. You’ve stayed two different times I didn’t think you would.”

Derek smirks, “Don’t assume.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “ _Derek,_ ” it's all exasperation.

“I don’t have anywhere else, Stiles.” It's not a complete lie. Sure there are other places, but they're nowhere he wants to be.

“Yes! You do. I pointed them out to you on multiple occasions because I thought that’s what you were waiting for!”

He watches the abortive movements coming from the man in front of him and steers a little bit off course. Doesn’t even know why he’s still talking right now, just that he feels like if he didn’t then he never would. “Do you like being alone?”

Stiles takes a step back, caught off guard. “Of course n- _No_.”

 _Good, then that will make this next part easier for me to say._ “Neither do wolves.” And he leaves it at that.

The dryad is all wide and imploring eyes again. His fingers waterfall by his sides, aching to move, but they never make it past his personal bubble. Instead he crumples inward and his head falls forward onto Derek’s chest, startling him again.

They’ve never really _touched_ before. Sure they’ve bickered, slapped at each other a bit, and patched each other up, but they’ve never done this. Whatever the hell it is.

He looks down at the head that’s buried in his chest and notices something salty emanating from Stiles. Derek takes a step back, causing the man’s head to come up, and there are tears. It’s not much, just enough to coat his eyes and make them glassy, just enough to spill over the edge and streak his cheeks.

Stiles frowns, sheepish and red again, and takes a step back too. He grasps at his arms like they’re a lifeline and sighs, “I miss him.”

All Derek can think to do is nod in agreement. He hasn’t had to console someone since – god – Isaac. The realization is like an echoing throb from an old wound. He steps closer, tentatively, and Stiles’ reddened eyes follow him. Again Derek bows his head in acceptance and Stiles comes crashing against his chest. It doesn’t take long for his arms to snake around Derek’s waist but Derek’s arms are hovering.

Derek was used to being touched all the time. Both with and without his permission. He’s pretty much accustomed to it, even now, after so long. What he isn’t used to is touching people back, especially when it isn’t touch that requires his wolf strength. Eventually he lets his arms fall and wraps them around Stiles. The dryad flinches at first but he almost instantly melts into it.

 _He’s been alone far too long._ Derek had already made a guess that Stiles wasn’t someone that operated well being alone but knowing it was all the more worrying. The wolf in him was a blessing and a curse in that moment. It recognized things beyond thought, feelings that surpassed words, and right now it wanted pack just as much as Stiles did. He was latching on.

Stiles seems to notice the tension in his body and pulls away. Derek almost fights it, but overrides his instincts quickly and lets the man go. The earnest amber gaze washing over his face isn’t doing anything to calm him though. It’s not like he didn’t know that Stiles would end up being a magnetic force; Stiles is interesting, and kind, when he wants to be, and has proved himself useful. Derek could have used Stiles back in Beacon Hills.

“Sorry.”

Derek shakes his head. “S'fine.”

The dryad jerks his head towards his bed, “Well uh, thanks. I’m gonna go lay down.”

~

After that it’s like the proverbial floodgates open for Stiles. He touches Derek. A lot. And again, it’s not like that’s anything new, but _how_ he touches is. He’s just as gentle as a leaf’s caress and just as fleeting. His fingers never press against Derek for too long and it only happens when Derek is what Stiles calls “broody”. Which is a lot apparently.

Even though he touches a lot, it’s not enough for Derek. He finds himself seeking it out, leaning into the quick brushes. He’s never had someone be so gentle around him that wasn’t treating him like he was breakable. Just touching him softly because that was the right way to do it.

It’s weird, and foreign, and part of him still fights it. He’s only known Stiles for a few months but he still has his doubts at the back of his mind. However, the man has repeatedly shown that he’s worth of the minimum amount of trust between temporary allies, if not more.

Definitely more. He’s already picked up on when to talk to Derek and when to let him be. Knows when the soft touch is warranted and when it’s probably not the best idea. It frightens Derek just how observant the man is, but it seems accidental. Almost second nature. And that makes it worse because he’d rather it was more intentional.

He’s an idiot. An idiot that doesn’t know how to talk about the more simple things that bother him. Instead he watches the soft rise and fall of Stiles’ chest at night. Neither of them are sleeping. The day had been long and they’d finally washed up again after an arduous week. Stiles had managed to provoke a stag somehow and twisted his ankle. He was fine, but Derek wasn’t happy about carrying back the large deer. They had a lot of meat already between Stiles’ sour moods and Derek’s hunting.

Shrugging off the week he turns back to Stiles. He smells minty, but not because of the bath - it's not like they have soap. His natural scent is a little on the minty side, but relaxed and buried underneath fresh earth and that syrupy sap smell. Normally Derek would scold himself for taking such notice, but they’re cooped up together everyday, all day, and with the intent behind Stiles’ touches, he now carries the scent.

Stiles huffs at his bed and sits up. “I’m bored.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and turns the rest of his body on its side to face him. “And?”

“ _And_ , you were right. I need to leave.”

The air leaves his chest before he can soak in the oxygen. He flounders for a second but regains his footing. He takes another breath and says in forced nonchalance, “Okay. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” He seems surprised by his own words and fairly confused.

Derek snorts, “You’re just thinking about this now, aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. “No. I’ve been thinking about it since you brought it up, but I only just now realized that I’m _bored_.”

“And what are you going to do about that at a time like this?” Derek holds out a hand indicating the lack of electricity and the general situation.

Stiles flops back down. “I want to leave the woods. Even if I end up coming back, I want to leave for a little bit. I want to _do_ something.”

Derek sighs, “Like _what_.”

“Live.” Stiles says plainly, but with a certain force that anchors the argument. He looks back at Derek, “I’m tired of hiding away in here. I want to live.”

The wolf watches him carefully, almost proud, but worried. He doesn’t know where or if he fits into that plan. He was the one that said it though, and he still means it. Stiles needs to leave. He’s not doing himself any favors by staying.

So Derek says, “In Spring.”

Stiles settles a little more in his nest of pillows. “Yeah. In Spring.”

 

END OF PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casual reminder that just because this is the end of part one it does not mean I'll be migrating to another story and making it a series. This is just marking a shift in what's going on. Also, this may not even be the halfway point. It will most likely be less. I'm not anticipating another ten chapters after this.
> 
> As always, I hope you've been enjoying the read :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Earth has started to reclaim the area after over two years of neglect._

PART TWO: Retaliations and Reciprocations

 

Derek is a lot of things. He’s a good hunter, persistent, resilient, strong, a werewolf – the point is, he’s got a pretty full portfolio. However, Derek also has some less than stellar qualities wedged into that spreadsheet. Oblivious can be one of them. It’s mostly willful, and he’s acknowledged that, but every once in a while he just doesn’t get it.

Stiles is a lot of things too. Dryad, former emissary, a planner, mouthy, and even dangerous. He’s more of a danger to himself than he is to Derek, but the point still stands – he can be lethal. Most importantly in the list of things that Derek has dubbed “Stiles” is the fact that he has the uncanny ability to say _so much_ without actually saying anything at all. Which is how they’re in this situation. Stiles seems to think that talking around a subject in great detail means that Derek knows what the fuck is going on.

“Why haven’t you packed anything?” Stiles queries from his lofty perch in the branches outside of the tree house. Another thing on the list: unfounded questions that seemingly spring from nowhere.

Derek looks up from where he’s seated on the porch. “What are you talking about?”

The dryad frowns at him and swings down onto the other side of the bridge. “Your things. Why haven’t you packed them?”

He grumbles, “First you told me to unpack them and just get used to staying and now you’re _mad_ I unpacked.”

“ _No_ you dolt. It’s **Spring** ,” Stiles throws up his hands in a flourish.

The wolf nods, “Yes Stiles. That _is_ what this season is called.”

Stiles stalks across the bridge with his arms crossed and taps his foot impatiently when he stops in front of Derek. “If you weren’t coming with me you could’ve said something.”

He scrunches his eyebrows in confusion for a moment then rolls his eyes as it dawns on him. “You haven’t talked about it in _weeks_. I thought you’d changed your mind or didn’t want me to go.”

The man huffs and crouches down before plopping in the spot next to Derek. “Of course I want you to go, dumbass. For someone who was so intent on me getting out of here you have a funny way of showing interest.”

Derek shrugs. “You seemed irritated by the subject. I prefer to avoid verbal altercations.”

Stiles snorts, “You prefer to avoid verbalization of any kind.” He pins Stiles with a glare but the man is unaffected. He continues, “I’m planning on leaving within a week or so. Pack your shit.” The man pushes himself up and strides back across the bridge and then up into his former spot in the tree. There’s plenty of room between them now but none of it is for argument.

He should’ve known that Stiles was serious about leaving and that he’d make Derek tag along. He wasn’t just gravitating towards Stiles, at some point their orbits aligned and they both headed into a mutually beneficial direction. Because Derek needs to leave too. He’s been in this forest for going on seven months, he lost his cabin, and the tree house isn’t really his home. In fact, he felt like he was trespassing knowing that it used to belong to Stiles’ pack.

Stiles knew that, but he’d brushed it off awkwardly saying they hadn’t been there together long. And then he’d gone out and brought back four rabbits Derek didn’t need, each with a carefully placed arrow in the chest.

Derek stopped sweating the efficiency of Stiles’ kills. Even when he was pissed at Derek he never raised a hand with the intent to kill or abused his power. He usually just went outside at night by himself because he knew Derek hated it. He still hates it. The reasons for it are spread on different ends of Derek’s spectrum of being, but the most important reason lines up with the part of Derek that actually cares about Stiles.

Which brings him back to where he is now, staring up at the man carving things into each tree branch to protect his home while he’s gone. Stiles moves with such fluidity that Derek can almost forget this is the same man that trips getting out of bed almost every morning. On the same spot, too.

While watching, Derek finds that, for the first time in a while, he’s relieved about something. He’s relieved that he doesn’t have to start over on another path, alone, again.

Sure, he’s efficient as a single unit, but that doesn’t mean it’s enjoyable. After all, Stiles had said he was leaving because he wanted to live, because what they were both doing was surviving. While that was important to Derek, and maybe even for Stiles, it wasn’t anything the two of them could derive enjoyment from. Whatever the final outcome of the trek was, Derek would be glad to leave this place for a while, and having Stiles as a companion wouldn’t be so bad.

~

“We’re stopping by the Walmart in town before we leave the area.” Stiles straps on his holster and sheaths the katana at his back.

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, “Oh, are we running errands before vacation?”

The man glares at him while shoving a variety of knives into places all along his leg. The sight shouldn’t make Derek shiver the way it does. “No, smartass. We’re gonna find a map, some duct tape, and whatever else we can get our hands on that’s important enough.”

He sighs and slings his backpack over his shoulder. “What could be so important that we don’t already have?”

“ _I don’t know Derek_. That’s why we’re going.”

“You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Am not.”

 _Are too_ , he refrains from saying and settles for, “Why duct tape?”

Stiles smirks and it reads: _Really?_ “Because it’s perfect for like everything and if we happen to run into a heavily infested area we can wrap some of our extremities so we won’t get bitten as easily.”

Derek snorts, “Yeah. That’ll stop a prowler.”

The man throws a pillow at him but he ducks. “I said _as easily_. As in, it will slow them down in case of emergency.”

“Or we could just avoid heavily infested areas,” Derek deadpans.

Stiles crosses his arms. “Keep making jokes, I’ll feed you to one of them personally.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Who said I was joking?”

The dryad rolls his eyes and waves his hand in dismissal. “Go get the rest of your shit and tell me when you’re finished.”

~

The trip to Walmart takes a little longer than Derek would’ve cared to admit. It’s days like this that he misses his baby. That car could take a beating and keep on going. It didn’t exactly hurt that the car was gorgeous too.

Despite the length of the trip, he finds that it was at least mildly tolerable. Stiles kept up conversation and Derek learned that the dryad wrote a paper on the history of male circumcision – gross, broke his arm falling out of a tree in third grade when he learned about his powers - ouch, and that he loves Reese’s cups – a LOT. He reminds himself to keep a look out for some when they make it to the store. Expiration dates be damned.

Before descending from the boughs they leave their bags high up, not wanting to risk being slowed down, or worse, robbed. The town they manage to make it into isn’t looking so hot. There were only a few Walkers and Sprinters in the area and Stiles made it a point to take them out as quickly and quietly as possible, but the place doesn’t look much safer despite the effort.

Rusted cars that were burned into bits in riots and street warfare stand in and around the roads, making a straight path through town less than likely. Buildings have taken a surprising amount of structural damage, and while some are standing tall as ever, others have succumbed to the will of erosion and gravity. Earth has started to reclaim the area after over two years of neglect, growing through anything that stands in her path.

Stiles doesn’t seem to be bothered by this though, in fact a small smile splays across his lips – one Derek is sure he wouldn’t be seeing if Stiles knew he could – and he plays with the elongated vines, bending them to his will.

The Walmart isn’t that far from the tree line they emerged from, probably only three or four miles. The wolf listens for heartbeats as they approach, but nothing of importance comes back to him. Regardless of the space they’ve covered in such good time, the day still grows dim, and Derek wants to make this trip as short as possible.

Every window and door to the store has been smashed and carts lie scattered and half full all around them. Remnants of boxes and bottles have been warped considerably in the California air, but still they remain until an outside force greater than heat acts upon them. Stiles looks back at Derek one more time for confirmation that nothing is awaiting him and enters the store, feet crunching on glass and rubble.

Even though the store is dark the man seems to have a firm grasp on where everything is situated. He follows a few steps behind the man and keeps his eyes trained on the things around them. The shelves are mostly upright, but there’s one section that’s been toppled completely to their far right. The store smells stale and rotten, and the scent of the man in front of him is much more soothing, at least that’s what he tells himself after honing in on it.

He hears it before he sees it. Stiles’ heart shoots through the roof and he gasps. For a moment Derek thinks he missed a heartbeat, made a mistake somehow. Stiles’ arms light up in a green hue and a few markings appear. He’s standing with the katana drawn and his legs spread wide in a defensive stance.

Rats screech and scatter from around a mostly eaten carcass and Derek lets out a long breath.

“Really?” The guy got him worked up over rodents.

Stiles drops his arms and whips his head back to look at Derek with narrowed eyes. “Don’t make fun of the guy with a sharp object in his hand, Derek.”

He snorts, “I’m shaking in my boots just thinking about it.”

The dryad sheaths his weapon and shakes out his limbs until the light on them dies out. He steps over the body and to a display case where one or two battery packs remain and the man shoves them into his pocket. Derek raises an eyebrow at him but follows as they continue.

Stiles’ haul includes:

  *       A map of California, Oregon, and a bit of Washington
  *       Peanut butter
  *       The two small packs of batteries
  *       Duct tape
  *       A couple of cans of beans and vegetables people were too picky to touch at the time
  *       Skewers from the camping section that he obviously plans on using as weapons (As if his tiny collection of knives isn’t enough for him)



Derek’s haul includes:

  *       A sleeping bag from said camping section
  *       Jerky that was tucked away in a shopping cart full of seemingly useless items
  *       Rope
  *       A few lighters
  *       A mask
  *       Some Reese’s cups that he finds while Stiles weighs the pros and cons of skewers in the camping section for five minutes.



The wolf comes back and hands the packages to the man and ignores the way his face heats up when Stiles’ eyes practically _glow_ in excitement. He looks like he wants to eat them, but also like he wants to save them and the indecision written on his face is just this side of painful.

He seems to decide against it finally and shoves them into his pants pockets, saving them for later. The man smirks up at Derek like he knows something, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead he nods, pats Derek’s shoulder and keeps walking.

“We should leave soon.” Derek’s voice doesn’t echo, per se, but it does come back to him in bits and pieces.

Stiles turns his head over his shoulder to respond, “Right after this. You should come too. Most people didn’t grab shoes before they left, too much of a hassle. I don’t know about you, but mine are on their last leg.” He laughs to himself, “Ha, on their last leg.”

Derek rolls his eyes and tries not to acknowledge the joke, if you could call it that. The man was right though, while the boxes are scattered and have definitely been poked through, more remain than are gone. The pair makes quick work of searching for their sizes and both grab some socks and shirts on their way out, changing into newer clothing before they leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be afraid to leave some comments with things you'd like to see!  
> Chapter 12 will usher in info on what the hell is about to be happening in part two and yes I promise they will kiss at some point.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You ain’t ever seen a human do that before have you?_  
>  ~  
> Sorry this has taken a little bit longer than usual - it's nearing the end of the semester for me so things have been getting serious. HOWEVER, I come bearing gifts in the form of this 3k chapter AND some art! That's part of the reason this took me a few days. Anyways, enjoy!

Road trips in the middle of an apocalypse are ill advised even under the best of circumstances. However, they’re necessary sometimes – whether to get to a better shelter or for new scenery is beside the point. That being said, there are some obvious drawbacks to leaving your previous shelter in search of something new. Most glaring of the issues would have to be _the lack of shelter_ _along the way_.

His wolf is constantly on edge as it is, but the added bonus of being exposed to the night air has him up in arms. The only upsides to this are that Stiles created a nest for them up in a particularly sturdy looking tree, and, when he was finished, proceeded to carve masking sigils into four different sections of the nest. He said something about symmetry and balance when Derek asked.

But Derek’s still not comfortable despite the dryad’s efforts and offers to keep watch for a portion of the night. Stiles had sighed and made a counter offer of a complete dome surrounding them, but Derek didn’t like the thought of being trapped in a tangle of branches without an escape route.

So, that’s how Derek finds himself keeping guard for Stiles’ period of sleep. It almost goes well – up until the part where Stiles starts squirming. The squirming turns into kicking, then a frantic pulse, and then gasps and screams.

Derek throws a hand over the man’s mouth, knowing Stiles didn’t put down a silencing spell, and growls harshly into his ear, “Stiles! Wake up. _Now_.” He shakes the man for added measure.

The dryad’s eyes fling open – bright green – and he grips Derek’s shirt tight, sending the wolf back into a dark space in his mind where someone else clung to him for dear life. He takes a deep breath and lets the blue fade from his eyes, coming back to Stiles having wedged his face into the crook of his neck.

His breaths are short and fast just like his heartbeats and Derek sighs, wrapping his arms around the man. “You’re awake now, it’s alright.”

He feels Stiles nod rapidly against him, “I know that. I know.” He sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. The dryad lets out a shaky breath after a while and loosens his grip on Derek. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Derek places a hand on Stiles’ back and tentatively brushes it up and down. He gets a shudder as response and all the tension in Stiles’ body seeps away.

“Do you want to go to sleep now?” Stiles asks as he pulls his face from Derek’s neck.

The wolf looks down and shakes his head. “No. Go back to sleep. You still have time.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

There’s a brief moment of pause where Stiles seems to think about whether that means against Derek or back on top of the sleeping bags but Derek pulls his head back against his neck. Stiles lets out an irritated huff for having been manhandled but allows it.

Derek’s hand still moves idly against his back, occasionally coming in contact with a wave of the man's hair. It's grown out considerably since they first met. They don’t exactly have the best tools at their disposal, but Stiles could cut it. His hair had been closely cropped all those months ago.

The wolf tugs at the hair, it’s tangled and a little dirty. His lip curls and he lets out a huff. “You need a haircut.”

“Don’t touch it if you don’t like it,” Stiles mumbles sleepily.

Derek stops brushing the man’s back. “It’s dirty.”

Stiles chuckles softly before replying, “There’s been a distinct lack of shampoo and conditioner in my life as of late.”

“Cut it off then.”

Stiles pinches him and leans back a smidge to look up at Derek, “You cut it if it bothers you so much.” He doesn’t bother waiting for Derek’s reply and shoves his nose back up against Derek’s pulse point.

The wolf lets out a long sigh and rubs the man’s back again, almost absentmindedly. He’s pretty much given up the pretense that he doesn’t like Stiles, and in the liberation of his hang-ups he won the ability to comfort and touch Stiles without mentally berating himself every five minutes; now it only happens every twenty or so. It’s not so much that he’s worried Stiles is going to double cross him and leave him for dead but that he’ll lose him. Things were temporary before Sunset, now they’re practically sand between fingers, there and gone in a flash. It just doesn’t make sense to get attached anymore.

The dryad hasn’t quite fallen back asleep yet when he says, “I’ve been letting it grow as long as I can stand before cutting it all off. It’s cathartic.”

“Cathartic?” Derek looks down at him.

All he gets is a hum in response.

Derek shifts, arm starting to fall asleep, and chuckles, “In a way that killing zombies isn’t?”

Stiles goes tense for a moment then lets out a deep breath. “It’s – There wasn’t much violence that resulted in death in my territory. Just because I’m capable of it doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

“You don’t have to enjoy it for it to be cathartic.”

He feels Stiles shrug against him before yawning and saying, “I guess.” He’s silent for a moment before picking up again with, “Me growing my hair is about control though. It’s one of the only things I have left.” It’s soft and almost shy and Derek doesn’t look down at the man, gives him his privacy for a moment.

The seriousness of the moment eats at him so he attempts diffuse it with a quick comment. “Your hair’s still gross.”

It seems to work because Stiles laughs. “Well I’m sorry you’re bothered by my luscious locks. I was planning on cutting it soon anyway.”

“Good.”

Stiles punches his arm. “Dick.”

Derek pushes him off his body and he hits the sleeping bag with a squawk. The wolf smirks down at him and puts his arms behind his head, resting against the branches. “You have thirty minutes. Get some rest.”

The dryad grumbles something under his breath and kicks at Derek’s leg, missing in the dark of the night, but eventually falls back into a quick nap. Derek gives him an extra twenty minutes.

~

Spring is definitely in swing, Derek notes, as they make their way through the forest. The trees are alive with color in a way that could almost make him forget his world died. The birds still won’t sing, not even this far from their original location, but there’s a distinct thrum and pulse in the woods that lets him know the animals are awake again.

Stiles seems suited for the spring. He thrives when the trees thrive and wilts when they do. He questions if that’s what caused the upset in the winter. Bitter chill rendering him weak and angry. It doesn’t really matter now, though. The dryad is practically oozing contentment, a smell Derek is just now learning about after almost five months or so – he’s starting to lose track.

The man's sweet undertones turn into pure vanilla and the minty scent that follows him around is now sharper, clearer. Their journey through the trees is markedly quicker too. It’s like everything has been rejuvenated in a way, everything but society. It's mostly nature and her more behaved creatures.

Part of him is thrilled, the other part of him is wary and ever vigilant.

Stiles turns to him as they walk a narrow path of branches, one following the other. “You know what I just realized?”

“That you need a bath?” Both of them smell. There’s a small river coming up according to the map. Knowing California it could be just a puddle now though.

Stiles sticks his tongue out. “Oh ha ha. _No_. I said ‘just realized’ as in a _new_ thought.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “What?”

“I don’t know much about you.” He says it like he’s disappointed, Derek thinks that he should probably sound a little more apprehensive.

“And?”

Stiles stops for a moment and frowns, “And I’d like to fix that. You don’t just go on a road trip with someone you don’t know much about.”

Derek raises his eyebrows and a sardonic smile plays at his lips. “It’s a little late for that don’t you think?”

The man laughs, “Sure you’re here now, but I could ditch you if I start to get creeper vibes.”

He narrows his eyes, bristling at the thought of being left behind. “I could track you. Catch up again.”

Stiles gives him a calculating look and then grins, it’s downright malicious. “I think you severely underestimate me.”

The two begin walking again and Derek says, “I think I understand you well enough.”

“Do you now?”

He contemplates pushing Stiles off the branch - knowing the guy would catch himself - just to prove a point, but he doesn’t. Instead he goes with, “Yes.”

The dryad hums in thought for a moment. “Well I think it’s only fair I get to ask some questions of my own.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I never asked any questions. You just talk a lot.”

“And you _listened_. You didn’t exactly tell me to be quiet so it still counts.”

He mutters under his breath, “Maybe you didn’t hear me over all _that_.” Stiles doesn’t notice.

Derek isn’t exactly thrilled to be under a magnifying glass. He never liked being questioned, only liked to offer up information when it was on his terms and his alone. He guesses it isn’t so bad now, it’s not like the information can be used against his pack. If he dies – well, then, he dies. There’s not much he can do about it now, and it’s not like he’d be leaving anyone behind.

Derek rolls his shoulders and then his neck, trying to ease out some of the tension in his body. “What do you want to know?”

Stiles pauses and bites his lips. Derek most certainly does not track the movement. “What’s your favorite color?”

He freezes and then lets out something that should’ve been a laugh. That wasn’t really what he was expecting. “You’re worried about not knowing me but the question you chose was about my favorite color?”

The dryad lets out a long sigh. “What, do you want me to ask you how your pack died?”

He visibly tenses and his eyes must flash blue because Stiles frowns.

“Didn’t think so. Easy questions first. What’s your favorite color?”

~

Derek ends up telling Stiles some of the least important things about himself. At least in his opinion. Stiles doesn’t see it that way though. The past doesn’t really matter, it’s a finite point to him. What matters to Stiles is all the little parts that make up people that never really seem to change, the things that make it through hell and back. Taste in music, the smells you like, the kind of weather you just couldn’t stand.

After careful thought, Derek can’t help but agree. Of course, the past matters to him in a way that it always will, even when the painful throb of loss turns into more of a dull ache, but it’s still something that’s already been written in ink. The only things he’s managed to take with him from that time are his basic likes and dislikes, his moral compass (though a bit skewed), and a few belongings.

So he tells Stiles that his favorite color is evergreen. It’s mostly true; he wavers between that and the color of natural clay. He also tells Stiles that he loves old school rock because of all the guitar, but he leaves out the part about how he could practically feel the vibrations in his bones – especially when he used to make it to live shows. Somehow Stiles even coaxes his dream day out of him. It would have to be quiet, obviously, and he’d probably want a book to curl up with on the porch of his old house, looking out at the yard and into the trees, and it has to be Autumn. No doubt.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, but there’s no heat there, only smoldering curiosity that’s practically leaping off of him and into the air. He smells tangy.

The dryad smirks and asks, “Okay, what about an author you really like – doesn’t have to be your favorite. I always have a hard time picking.”

“Poetry or literature?” Derek counters.

The man wiggles his lips back and forth before deciding, “Both.”

He smiles, small and mostly to himself. They continue walking through the trees as he thinks. “Vonnegut.”

Stiles turns his head over his shoulder and gives Derek a once over. “Figures. You seem the type to enjoy his witticisms.”

“And you don’t?”

He smiles and turns back around. “Never said I didn’t, just seems more fitting for you. What about poetry?”

After a beat, “Pablo Neruda.”

He lets out a surprised ‘huh’ at that.

“What?” Derek presses. Stiles seems awfully amused.

“Nothing. I didn’t really see that one coming. You don’t strike me as a love poem kind of guy. I would've guessed Plath. Which ones do you read?”

Derek’s ear twitches and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He turns briefly but doesn’t see anything trailing above or below them. “What do you mean?”

“English or Spanish? Or do you read the translations?”

Derek scoffs. “No. You lose a lot of little things in translation. I read both.”

Stiles smiles at him, it’s bright and easy, but almost hesitant. “So do you speak Spanish or just read it?”

“I’m fluent.”

That earns him another interested hum. The prickle at the back of his neck has become more of a constant itch so he stops. Scenting the air, honing in on individual sounds, focusing particularly hard on any crunches in the leaves or twigs on the forest floor. It takes him a moment to spot them but when he does Stiles is talking.

He grabs the dryad and presses them both against the trunk of a tree. He places a hand over Stiles’ mouth and flashes his eyes to cow him into submission and silence before pointing in the general direction of upset, but not before whispering harshly into his ear, “ _Disconnect the branches._ ”

Stiles nods and the tree branches move slowly, unwinding quietly despite the abundance of leaves. He can feel the erratic thrum of the man’s heart against his hand and jerks it away, not realizing how tightly he’d been holding him. The man slowly peels his back from Derek’s chest and moves to an adjacent branch. Derek thanks his lucky stars for the renewed greenery. If it had been fall they would have been screwed.

As they get closer he can smell it, it’s sharper than before. Gun powder, wolfsbane, ash. His fangs drop at the presence of the threat. Stiles seems to understand, but what Derek wasn’t expecting was the sound of Stiles' throat constricting tightly.

His scent spikes into the unpleasant burn of electricity Derek remembers from months ago. Stiles’ legs waver but he drags the man back. He’s practically wheezing in Derek’s arms – eyes steadily building up into their inhuman green, pulse skipping around. His breaths are short and cutting and his grip on Derek would be bruising if he weren’t a werewolf.

Branches start to grow from their resting place, weaving and twisting into one another. Last night had shown him something similar, but this time the branches keep going, making a dome. He growls low in protest but Stiles is in another world apparently – completely unresponsive. Derek just hopes the hunters won’t be alerted to their whereabouts.

He slides down the newly formed wall and hones into the outside voices. There are only two of them, but Derek can pick up at least four scents, there might be a fifth, but it’s faded and light.

The wolf only picks up tiny bits and pieces like, “left the field” and “-s’been years since the –” and then “shouldn’t be hard to kill.” He tenses and clutches Stiles a little more tightly. The dryad has worked up a sweat in his frantic daze.

The voices sound closer now and he shifts on instinct, dropping Stiles and the bag from his back to the ground softly.

One voice says, “Why are we even coming after this guy?”

The other, more shrill answers with another question, “You questionin’ Gerard?”

“Course not. Just wondering. He’s just some stupid emissary right? We got the pack, what’s so important about him?”

The more shrill voiced person seems to have hit the first person if the resulting groan is anything to go by. “Cause you _idiot_. He’s the one that killed half the group. Weren’t you listenin’?”

“Yeah! But he’s just some human right? They couldn’t have a werewolf for an emissary.”

“He’s not human. I can tell you that much.”

The first heartbeat seems to waver. “W-What do you mean?”

Stiles’ dome is complete now, but the branches are still twisting tightly around each other, making the barrier near impenetrable. Derek crouches over the man and grips him carefully with his clawed hands before pressing a few into his skin to snap him out of it, whatever _it_ is. The pain doesn’t even faze the dryad and branches come up to ward Derek off. He growls softly at them, but backs away, hearing the tail end of a comment.

“-whole forest. The trees were _alive_. You ain’t ever seen a human do _that_ before have you?”

The voices retreat after a while, heading in the direction that Stiles and Derek had been moving towards. The beta shift eventually recedes but the feeling of an impending threat never does. His skin is on fire and he’s ready to pounce.

The branches protecting Stiles from Derek’s claws receded when Derek backed away, but the dome is still intact. If it weren’t for the fact that trees produced oxygen Derek is pretty sure they would’ve suffocated considering how tightly locked the sphere of branches around them is. No amount of scratching or clawing on his part changed that, in fact, it actually made the branches grow thicker and all the more stubborn.

Stiles is breathing more normally, in the sense that he doesn’t sound like he’s having an asthma attack anymore. Now his breaths are deep and even, almost like he’s sleeping, but his eyes are wide open. They’re amber again, but there’s something haunted about them. He doesn’t look like he’s seeing anything, just looking through all of it.

Derek lets out a huff and slides back down the curved wall, accepting that he isn’t leaving any time soon. “I think it’s my turn to ask a few questions.”

He hears the man’s heartbeat stutter, but he doesn’t so much as flinch outwardly. After a few beats Stiles turns his head to him. “Shoot.”

( Image: Stiles and Asphodel flowers. Asphodel flowers are symbolized by the phrase, "My regrets follow you to the grave.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not repost my art without my permission. I have a tumblr and I will find out, I promise you that. Also, there's a Derek companion piece to this one that I'll be posting in the next chapter.  
> Thank you for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Derek wonders how it was that he got himself into this mess._  
>  ~  
> Okie doke, here is another chapter for all of you plus the companion piece to the art from the end of the last chapter. I have no clue if any of you liked it but I already had this one made too so it's there at the end. Enjoy!

Stiles is quiet for some time as the barrier unwinds itself. He picks at his nails and makes a move to speak every so often but only a small flutter escapes him.

“You wanna tell what the hell that was about?” Derek is seething, but on the surface he is smooth as glass save his blue eyes.

Finally he looks up at Derek and his eyes are cold, unfeeling. “I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

He doesn’t exactly listen to Stiles’ heart every time he talks, doesn’t need to for everything, but he’s sure that if anything important came up he would’ve listened to be sure. He narrows his eyes and backs up a step. “Explain.”

The man across from him looks away and closes his eyes. Derek can hear his teeth scraping and sliding past one another. “The reason I stayed,” he lets out a long breath that turns into a bitter laugh and opens his eyes. His pupils are like pinpoints, eyes consumed with liquid gold. “I didn’t stay because I couldn’t follow Liam. I could have, but I didn’t want to. It wasn’t just because he would remind me of everything I’d done, it was because I wanted to kill the hunters.”

Stiles looks at him and Derek is entranced, but not in a good way, more of a sick sense of awe. It’s like he’s watching a ghost of someone Stiles used to be.

“I’ve gotten good about talking around the truth – living with a pack for so long makes that easy, I’m sure you know.” Derek bares his teeth and Stiles looks away again, sighing.

“You know why I told you not to power a rune, or anything for that matter, with anger? It’s not because the system will fail, it’s because it will thrive, grow without end as long as you’re still angry.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and a wry smile touches his features. “I stayed in that house, waiting. I forced Liam to go, told him to get out while he could. Must’ve been something in my voice because he didn’t fight me, not even a little. Told me where he’d be going and to catch up when I could.”

“It didn’t take long for the hunters to find me. I made it easy,” his smile goes grim, “I led them to the heart of our new territory because that’s where I was strongest. I was so ready for them – so _angry_.” Birds rustle from their resting places, shocked by his raised voice and the branches that have sharpened into daggers beneath them.

He steadies himself and begins again, practically whispering, “I was _so_ angry, I couldn’t control myself. Of course that’s hard enough to begin with, but this was worse.” Derek shifts uneasily into a crouch and observes his ticks.

Stiles lets out a puff of air, “They trampled up the stairs like they owned the place. _Our place_. And I let them. I let them, I let them. When they got to the bridge I struck. I killed the whole party that had been sent – not knowing it was just some tiny side group that was used to collect valuables. Not that it mattered, they were just as bad.”

“I broke, after that. I snapped and cried and didn’t pay attention to how my emotions were effecting my powers – how I was building a palace that only I could enter.” He lets out a shuddering breath and when he looks at Derek there are tears in his eyes, but the effervescent green pulls at his irises too.

“The tree house was a lot more guarded than you ever saw. More, uh, more like that dome I just built on accident.” He at least has the good grace to seem shy about it and pulls at his shirt nervously.

“When I finally went out again I put a spell on as much of the forest as I could. Made it so that nothing living and evil could ever make it into my space _ever_ again, but it trapped the ones that were still inside.”

He’s shaking now and the leaves around him form a shawl, calling out to him, but he brushes them away and takes a steadying breath, he sits up straight and clears his throat. “It took me a while to kill the other group. They were more skilled, stronger. But I did it, and their friends on the outside saw every bit. I made sure they saw every bit. I almost got away untouched, but one of them saw me.”

Stiles cracks his fingers and stands. “That greasy fucking asshole, looks like a Scarface wannabe. He caught me up in the trees. Arrows and bullets had no problem making it past the barrier.”

Derek hadn’t gotten a good look, but he was guessing it was the one with the voice that sounded like it was speaking around broken glass. He stands and lets his fangs recede, his claws stay put. He takes a moment to catalog the person in front of him, they’re different. “You want me to believe you after you lied to me?”

The dryad narrows his eyes, “You don’t have to believe anything Derek. It doesn’t matter if you don’t, I already lived it.”

He has a distinct dislike for this frigid and unattached Stiles. He didn’t like him back at the tree house and he hates him even more now. This Stiles is a threat – to Derek _and_ himself.

He keeps questioning him though. “Why not kill the hunters on the outside?”

“Because I had been shot,” Stiles grinds out, “In the _chest_. There are limits to what I can do.”

Derek rolls his eyes at that. The man is far less limited than he lets on. He already knew that though so next he questions, “If you put up a barrier how did I get in? How did _prowlers_ get in?”

“It only kept out things _living_ things that were _evil_. Prowlers are technically dead, and you obviously missed the evil mark.” Stiles gives him another calculating look and Derek finds himself widening his stance for attack.

“And you helped me this whole time because what, I was your penance? You were making up for your friend dying?”

Stiles tenses even further, “ _Fuck you_. You fucking – fucking _asshole_.”

Derek growls low and Stiles rushes at him, swinging and missing. Derek grabs his arm and twists it against his back before shoving Stiles up against the tree. He snarls into his ear, “That’s what it is, _isn’t it_?”

Stiles kicks his shin and elbows him in the stomach with his free arm. He jumps up to a higher branch but Derek grabs his leg and pulls him back down and the two fall precariously close to the edge of the nest.

“ **Get off me!** ”

“ _No.”_ Derek’s claws are dangerously near the man’s skin as he holds him. “Tell me.” He’s eerily calm but Stiles’ rabbit pulse fills his ears. They’re so close.

“What do you care?” Stiles hisses out. “Huh? What does it matter to you? You don’t believe me anyway!”

Derek growls but Stiles isn’t cowed, his eyes are furious. “I want you to give me a reason to believe you.”

Stiles laughs, “Oh. Oh, because I should have to explain something that has nothing to do with you!”

“Nothing to do with me? There are hunters _following us_.”

“They’re not following _us_ , they’re following _me_.” Stiles squirms but Derek hardens his grip.

“And am I not traveling with you?” Derek’s fangs have appeared again. He’s livid, he’s worried, and he just wants this day to end. He wants to rewind to a better time. Before Sunset, before his pack dying, before _this_. This attachment to someone as fucked up as he is.

“I don’t know!” Stiles yells.

He yells for the first time ever in Derek’s presence and it seems to have startled him. His eyes go wide and he turns away, scent mellowing for a beat, hidden beneath shame. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “You can leave if you want. No one’s keeping you here.”

He’s obviously not thrilled with Stiles, probably won’t be for a while, but the offer still feels like a kick in the stomach. Derek can’t bring himself to express that. Instead he forces his tone into one more even than should be possible and says, “If you want me to leave, _fine_.” He says it like it’s easy. Like it won’t cause him the slightest bit of pain.

He backs away but Stiles lets out another humorless laugh, “If _I_ want you to. Why is this on me? I’m giving you the option, you can leave if _you_ want.”

“I don’t want to stay if you don’t want me to.” Derek straightens his shirt out and grabs his bag.

Stiles pulls at his hair, which is now in disarray. “ _God_. You – you!”

“I _what_ Stiles. What is it?” They’re back to yelling.

He gets up and pushes Derek square in the chest, he doesn’t move so much as an inch but it still catches him off guard. “You piss me off.”

“And?”

Stiles ignores him, “I don’t get you. I really don’t. I can’t fucking tell if you keep asking because you want me to give you a reason to leave or a reason to stay.”

The man gets into his space but Derek doesn’t back down. Before he can get a word in edgewise Stiles speaks again. “You want to know why I let you stay? Why I helped you, you fuckin ass.” He lets out a loud groan and pushes Derek’s shoulder, “It’s because I care about you, idiot. You remind me –“ his breath catches in his throat, “You remind me of home.” He slinks backward like it’s as much a realization for him as it is for Derek right now.

His lungs are on fire and his senses are on red alert. He’s busy trying to figure out what the hell kind of admission that is when Stiles breaks into his thoughts _again_. “I – I missed being part of a pack. I miss the bickering.” The dryad is crying now, “I miss Scott.”

Derek is frozen in place. He can still leave now. Get as far away from this and what little responsibility he has left. He can’t hear the hunters, and he knows a bit of rune magic if he needs it.

_But what would happen to Stiles?_

He shakes the tens of thoughts that follow and crouches down to where Stiles is curled in on himself. He lets the bag slide off his shoulder and rests his arms on his thighs. The wolf doesn’t move and doesn’t speak, just observes and listens.

Stiles smells like lightning and smoke, breathing him in burns Derek’s nostrils as if he were directly in line with a fire. The dryad’s fingers tremble and grip at pant legs that are covered in weapons. If it weren’t for that he’d look so young and fragile. So small.

Minutes pass and he brings himself to Stiles’ side, not touching but close enough. “I miss it too.”

The breathing beside him stops and Stiles stirs, head rising. He chances a look in Derek’s direction, but the wolf is looking away. He can feel the eyes on him though.

They sit in silence for a few more moments before Derek looks at him, eyes hard, but pale blue-green again. “How old are you?”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “W-what?”

“How _old_ are you?”

The dryad lets out a shaky laugh, “Are you – you’re. Oh you’re serious.”

Derek looks away.

The man bobs his head and looks away too. “Assuming it’s April right now, I’m probably 23.”

He does the math and Stiles was probably just under 21 when the world went to shit. Didn’t even get to have the celebratory first public drink. He just nods. He remembers being 23, having just started a pack again.

Limbs unfold beside him and Stiles opens his mouth a few times, but doesn’t actually get any words out.

“What is it, Stiles?” He turns to him again.

Stiles rubs his thumb across his bottom lip a few times. It takes a few tries but he finally gets an apprehensive, “How – uh – how old are you?”

He looks him up and down, “28. Winter.”

The dryad nods and looks away again. “Look, I’m sorry. If I – _that_ I put you in danger.”

Derek doesn’t move or breathe. He just keeps listening.

“I don’t,” a grumble escapes the man’s lips and he turns his body to Derek. “I don’t want you to leave but, but I get it if you do.”

Stiles’ heart is strong and true and doesn’t waver and Derek wonders how it was that he got himself into this mess. It’s like he’s drawn to the unpredictable, all the things that could possibly tear him apart.

It doesn’t really matter though. He could die at any point from a wide array of things. If it happens to be in the midst of running from hunters then that’s how it happens. “I’m not leaving.”

The heart beside him isn’t so steady now. If Derek had to put it into words he’d say it sounds like it’s doing backflips. Were the sun a little higher in the sky he’d be able to see the faint blush on Stiles’ cheeks.

“You aren’t?” He sounds afraid.

Derek sighs and turns to him, “No. I’m not.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, “ _Why_?” He claps a hand over his mouth and backtracks, “Not that I don’t want you to I just – what?”

The wolf rolls his eyes. “I get it.”

“You _get it_?” The dryad looks dubious.

“Yeah.”

Stiles leans back against the tree and swallows, loud and thick. “Okay.”

(Image: Derek and Blue Monkshood. Monkshood flowers are symbolized by the phrase, "Beware; a deadly foe is near.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not repost my art without my permission. I have a tumblr and I will find out.  
> Thank you for the comments and thanks again for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Birds chirp lightly around them._  
>  ~  
> Hey guys! Sorry for that mini hiatus, It's finals week and I'm packing and I'm very busy so I haven't had much time to write or post on here.  
> Anyways, I'm sorry this is so short but I'll have another chapter posted in a few days instead of a week and a half sooooo, enjoy!

That night brings the soft pitter-patter of rain. Rain is not uncommon as far north in California as they are, but this is the first time Derek has been caught in a shower without an absolute shelter.

Stiles’ first reaction is to laugh for whatever reason. He laughs and extends his arms before bringing them back in so he can rub his face. He spreads out on the nest and stares up into the boughs as Derek covers their bags with a semi-waterproof tarp, or at least part of a tarp. It’s ripped but it gets the job done.

It takes a few minutes but when the dryad comes back from whatever fugue state he’s delved into, he’s calmer, a little quieter. Derek watches from a branch off to the side as the man brings his hand up towards the sky. The branches shift in harmony to form a roof and large leaves grow downward for faux walls. Stiles falls asleep shortly after, exhausted by the day.

~

“Breakfast.”

Derek wakes, eyes still heavy with sleep, to Stiles holding out berries of some sort along with a granola bar. He eyes the offering carefully. “Where did you get those?”

Stiles frowns momentarily before letting out a deep breath. “I went for a walk.” After a few more moments facing Derek’s apprehension he says, “They’re just blackberries, relax.” He pops one into his mouth for added measure.

Taking the fruit and bar, Derek sighs. “See anything while you were out?”

The man tenses and gives a terse shake of his head. “No.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

He polishes off the granola bar and Stiles dips into the pile of berries every so often. Once everything is gone he looks up again. “What’s the plan?”

Stiles’ eyes widen and narrow almost imperceptibly fast. He takes in a deep breath, “What do you mean?”

“ _What are we doing_?” Derek says at a leisurely pace, almost condescending but not quite.

The dryad doesn’t seem to understand and opens his mouth repeatedly like a fish out of water. After a few seconds he lets out a disgruntled huff. “Weren’t you upset with me like ten hours ago?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, “You still want me to be?”

Stiles shoots him a withering look in response.

“I can manage, just for you,” Derek adds dryly.

The dryad rubs a hand over his face, “No it’s just – I imagined you taking the wheel on this trip. Y’know – after what happened.”

“I said I understood.”

The man nods, “Yeah, yeah you did I guess.”

“So?”

Stiles thinks it over, tapping his fingers against his knee while his chin rests in his other hand. “Is this an all encompassing what are we going to do, or just in relation to this trip?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Are we going back or moving forward?”

The dryad turns to look over his shoulder. “What _is_ forward at this point?” He asks himself.

He’s hoping he can coax an answer out of Stiles some time this century. "Well?" Derek prods

“I don’t know. I just wanted to get out of my bubble for a while. I wasn’t planning on tracking down hunters.” He slouches against the tree and flicks at the leaves beside him.

Derek considers him for a few seconds. “Do you want to now?”

“Do I want to what?”

“Track them,” he supplies.

Stiles purses his lips. “Honestly?” He rubs his face again. “No, not really. I mean – you saw how I handled it last night.” He smiles ruefully. “What do you think?”

Derek hadn’t really considered how much of a say he’d have in the matter. This was Stiles’ backstory, not his. “They’re rogue.”

“Yeah,” Stiles concedes. “But is it our job to put them down?”

He shrugs. “They’re not nearby anymore. We’d have to track them.”

The dryad smiles but it’s dry. “And by _we_ you mean _you_ because I have no real tracking skills.”

He frowns. “Yes.”

“Then no.”

Derek smirks. “Final answer?”

That gets a small smile in return out of the man in front of him. “Yeah. Final answer.”

Derek stands and sets his hands on his hips. “Okay. Up.”

“What?” Stiles looks up at him.

Derek motions for him to get up. “Come on. You smell. If we’re not tracking anyone then we’re bathing. ”

Stiles frowns and smells himself. The following face isn’t very bright but he bites back with, “Yeah, well you’re no summer breeze either.”

“Which one of us has enhanced senses?”

“ _I’m_ sensing some attitude right now,” Stiles mutters.

Derek cuffs him upside the head and juts his chin in the direction he wants to go. Stiles levels him with a glare but the trees twist a path despite it.

~

Today the forest is calm. Granted, the forest is always “calm” but today is a different kind of calm. Derek doesn’t feel as rigid and ready to pounce because of some outside threat. He still wants to throttle Stiles for being a massive pain in his ass, but other than that he’s doing okay. His definition of okay has changed beyond recognition these past few years, but he’s okay. Whatever else there’s left to fix will be righted with time. He hopes at least.

Right now Derek’s problems are few though. One of them is glaringly large and smells of at least three different types of poison, but that’s only one of a short list, and it might not even _be_ a problem if the hunters’ absence is anything to go by. Lower on the list is how dirty Derek and Stiles have gotten. The bath is much needed. Derek might even wash some of his old clothes.

As they approach the riverbank Stiles strips and throws his dirty clothes on a newly formed platform shortly before diving out of the tree and into the water with a reckless abandon Derek still doesn’t understand. The wolf shakes his head and climbs down, taking his clean clothes with him to the shore. The dryad will have to climb back up for his when the time comes.

Cool ripples of water lap at Derek’s skin and he fights the urge to relax. The river is of fair size, deep enough for Stiles to submerge himself fully when leaping from a tree. Its pace isn’t fast though, in fact it borders on lazy and Derek’s mind flashes back to a time before this when he spent his summers at a place not much unlike this.

Stiles pops up from the water, hair pooling at his shoulders and takes in a greedy lungful of the air around him. His amber eyes open and catch Derek briefly before disappearing in the water again. The wolf watches his surroundings as he swims and keeps one ear on the forest, though the threat level is still low.

A hand grabs his ankle and his eyes go blue right about the time that Stiles comes up. He narrows his eyes and lets them fade back into their usual jade but Stiles is already laughing.

“Oh man, I didn’t actually think I’d be able to –“

Derek pushes him under and wades out into the middle. He lets himself go under for a moment and scrubs his hair. When he comes up Stiles is sitting on a rock, smirking.

“I actually surprised you huh?”

Derek is unimpressed. “No.” He turns away but the hair on the back of his neck stands up and he turns just in time to see Stiles cannonball. The water ripples around them dramatically and the sound practically echoes across the empty forest.

“What are you doing?” Derek hisses.

Stiles flicks a tiny line of water at him and he closes his eyes to avoid getting any in them. “Playing.”

“I liked it better when you were quiet.”

“No you didn’t. If that were true you wouldn’t be here at all. You _like_ having someone around to talk to.”

Derek sneers, “Don’t push your luck. I can find someone else.”

Stiles mocks affront. “You wound me.”

He ignores him and settles on another decision for the day. “We should get back soon.”

Stiles frowns and looks up into the sky. “Why? We’ve got plenty of time.”

“I have things I’d like to take care of.”

Stiles looks back down at him, “Like?”

“Dinner. Unless you want to eat a handful of berries again with a can of vegetables.”

The dryad splashes him. “Don’t act like you didn’t appreciate my foraging skills. Fresh fruit is nice and hard to come by.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t want a hot meal?”

“No that’s –”

“Then we should get going soon.” Derek swims back towards the shore and lets his limbs twist and contort into his wolf form before ridding himself of as much water as possible. He rounds the tree and shifts back to change.

When he comes back around he finds Stiles naked at the shore and turns away. Derek rubs his hair dry with his dirty shirt. “Have fun climbing up for your clothes. I’m not getting them.”

The tree shakes beside him and a pile of clothes fall a few feet from the dryad.

“Did you just?” Derek looks up at where they had stashed their things for the swim.

Stiles smiles at him and dries off with a spare shirt. “Did you _really_ think I was going to climb up the tree naked?”

“Get dressed. Now,” Derek grumbles and then scratches a few lines into the trunk. He waits for the stairs then makes his way up the tree.

“Wait for me!” Stiles calls as he slips on a shirt.

Derek pauses and looks down, “Hurry up and I might.”

Light laughter sounds from below and birds chirp lightly around them. The scrambling beat of the dryad follows shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always calm before the storm


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Everyone’s practically savage now though_  
>  ~  
> Okay so I totally fibbed on the timeline and I'd like to apologize but between packing, moving into a new place, and some nasty writers block I'm mildly justified. Anyways Idk how much I like this chapter because there's some feelings but hopefully you guys will. MIXED POV

“Hey, so what are we hunting for right now?” Stiles wonders from two branches above. He’s laid out on his stomach with his arms and legs hanging down.

Derek rolls his eyes and looks up before he whispers, “Nothing if you don’t shut up.”

Stiles flips him off and readjusts. He stage whispers back, probably just to annoy him. “What are we huntinnnng?”

“Anything with meat. Shut. Up.”

Stiles grumbles something unintelligible but obeys.

Seconds turn into minutes turn into at least an hour. Derek can sense Stiles is only a few minutes from becoming restless but he can hear something approaching, he knows the wait is almost over, so he tells him to get ready.

“Do you want me to take the shot?” Stiles asks low and steady, voice barely a whistle in the wind.

Derek shakes his head and slides down branches carefully. He tries not to get too excited when he sees the fawn, just a few weeks shy of adulthood if he had to guess. It’ll probably be the softest meat they’ve had in months.

He barely has time to blink when it happens. He doesn’t even know _how_ it happens, but somehow the deer is startled. Stiles drops down a few feet and leaps across to a neighboring tree and then again and again. Derek follows suit and pursues from the ground. He catches up to the deer in mere minutes, Stiles only a few yards behind him.

“Push it left!” He hears being yelled from the trees. Derek looks ahead, plans his course of action and ducks an incoming branch. The branches and leaf litter on the forest floor are hardly forgiving after the rain though, making his steps fall just short of graceful and controlled, and the plan to push left doesn’t seem to be one that will work.

He’s not sure how far they’ve run now, only that the baby deer will probably tire soon.

“Derek!” Stiles calls, probably to tell him the same.

He bares his teeth, closing in. He really doesn’t have time for this according to the dying sun.

“ **Derek!** ” Stiles repeats, though the reason dies on his tongue because the wolf sees his opening, jumps over a fallen log, and uses it to propel himself forward. He smacks into the deer and the two go rolling through the leaves and dirt. Only as he stands, fresh kill beneath him, does he hear it. But he hears it too late.

The metal clack of a gun being cocked echoes through his ears as does Stiles’ final cry of, “No!”

Distantly, he recognizes that the world has _not_ shifted, he has. The only reason he’s now parallel to the sky is because he’s fallen, and the only reason he’s fallen is because he’s been shot. Everything mutes outside of the pain emanating from his left shoulder until something comes into his field of vision.

The increasing pain, dim sky, and awkward angle make it hard for him to discern anything outside of a twisted smile and the sickening smell of ash. Whoever or whatever is above him steps on his shoulder and he lets out a groan, blacking out finally as another shot is fired.

~

Stiles is freaking out. His heart – god his heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings probably. He _tried_ to warn Derek, but he wasn’t quick enough. He’s _never_ quick enough.

 _You’re useless. Do you know that? Second chance and you can’t even keep this one alive._ Stiles jams his fingers into his hair, screwing it up. He trembles, his back to the tree, as others circle below.

The energy turned sour as he and Derek encroached the area, pursuing that fucking deer. Concern rippled through the trees and into Stiles as he harnessed their power and suddenly he felt familiarly ill. It was a warning – it was a warning and he missed it. The wildlife always recognized an issue before anything even half human could.

 _He tried_. But Stiles should’ve left the trees, pulled Derek up, _anything_. Derek must’ve thought – it wasn’t important. It isn’t important because if Stiles thinks about it too much he’s – he’ll.

The branches ripple around him and he shushes them almost instantly, needing to keep the only edge he still has. Seclusion, cover, a hiding place.

 _Oh god, is he even alive? **Shut up, shut up, shut up. He**_ has **_to be. He has to!_**

Stiles slides around the trunk and tries to count the hunters around him. One, two, three, four, five, six – a lot, there’s enough for him to be worried and he doesn’t even have Derek’s perfect hearing to help him figure out how many he _can’t_ see.

His shaky fingers pat at his pockets. He’s lucky they went back for his things. _Is it really luck if going on this hunt got Derek… whatever, in the first place?_

The dryad shakes away the intruding thoughts and pulls a dart from his thigh pocket. There are only two of these and all they do is paralyze, which is helpful but not the goal. Stiles is aiming for something that would’ve been considered dark and cause for jail time before all this.

Everyone’s practically savage now though, why should he care?

“We came prepared this time,” A nasty and familiar voice calls out into the woods.

 _Wrong direction fuckwad_ , Stiles sneers. He can’t get a clear shot though, the man won’t stop moving, the light is dying, and he’s too near Derek.

Stiles wouldn’t be able to get a good shot out anyway with the tremor in his hands, though it’s graduated from fear tremors to those of pure rage. The tree begins twisting coils outward, reaching for him.

The man steps over Derek’s motionless body. “Learned a thing or two about hiding ourselves thanks to you. Guess we should say thanks.” He leans down and pats Derek’s face, “What do you think? Oh – Oh he can’t say anything, can he?” The vile man tsk’s and looks back up, twirling in a circle, hoping for the right direction. “Hope you don’t mind, it’s only fair since you killed half our team.”

Stiles snaps. He fires off a dart without warning or thought, stunning the nearest hunter. Their fall is quieted by a sudden growth of plush green leaves. The next hunter will get the same treatment, but anyone after that – well they won’t be paralyzed _temporarily_.

The dryad pulls himself up and across a branch. He aims for another hunter on the outskirts of the bunch he can actually see. Their fall is broken by leaves as well.

“Why don’t you come out and play?” The man asks, voice just as annoying as it was years ago, if not more so.

 _I am, you just haven’t noticed yet, prick._ He collapses his tube and shoves it back into a pocket for later. He focuses his energy on the trees surrounding Derek and the hunters. The branches fall into motion easily under the will of his anger and determination, almost eager, and snap together.

 _No use being quiet now_ , he thinks.

“You think you can pull this again?” The man wails upward. He pulls his rifle from around his shoulder and aims it up into the trees, one eye closed. “You won’t get away this time,” Stiles hears faintly.

“If I die, I’m taking you to hell with me,” Stiles hisses quietly. He looks down at the few weapons he has remaining, some skewers (thank the heavens he grabbed those), one smoke bomb – fuck you very much prowlers, plenty of small knives, the katana at his back, and whatever energy he can convert into magic.

Taking a deep breath, he stands and walks toward the edge of the branch he occupies. As he nears the edge he picks up the pace until he’s at a full on run and – jumps. He hits the next tree and keeps going, shots sounding off from below whenever he makes the brief reappearance in between trees.

He picks off two more hunters easily, each falling with a knife in the meat of their necks. They’ll die slowly, and painfully if Stiles is lucky and they don’t pull out the knives like the idiots they are.

He leaps across to yet another tree and launches a skewer into one man’s shoulder. He cries out something Stiles doesn’t care about and pulls the metal from his arm, but the care taken to do so leaves him defenseless and Stiles sends another skewer into his chest. He’s hoping he hit the guy’s heart. If he didn’t – well he’ll come back.

 _Five down_ , he thinks. Something whistles past him, too close for comfort, and then something else catches him in the side. He hisses in pain and looks down, arrow just making it into the side of his abdomen. The dryad pulls it out and barely stops himself from snapping it, choosing instead to launch it back in the direction it came from with an awkward branch contraption. The hit may not have been fatal, but falling _that far_ from a tree had to have been painful at the very least.

The world seems to pause when he hears something. Stiles slithers around the trunk towards the noise to see Derek attempting to move only to be hit upside the head with the but of a gun and, subsequently, stepped on.

Each tree begins to twitch, fire in his veins amped up several notches - but contained. _Derek is alive_. _He’s alive. **Not for long if you don’t hurry up**_ **.**

A plethora of muffled moans and curses rain across the battlefield. The paralyzed men have got to be the most annoying, a few of the others have just begun choking on their blood. But Stiles doesn’t care about them, can barely bother to notice. There’s only one man in the vicinity worthy of Stiles’ attention and he plans to get him.

“You do anything else, and I shoot your little dog here right in the head.” Stiles doesn’t need heightened senses to hear the way the hunter's voice shakes when he says it. Still, he makes his next moves carefully, holding out on a prayer that he’s gotten most, if not all, of the surrounding hunters, and shifts down the tree slowly.

He keeps himself covered and calls back, “You so much as move another inch toward him and I’ll hang you from the tallest tree by your toenails.”

“You’re awful mouthy for someone who’s ‘bout to get another one of his friends killed.”

Stiles clenches his teeth until his jaw creaks. “And you’re pushing your fucking luck.”

He manages to get a good look at the man and Derek, but he gives himself away and the man shoots. Bark goes flying beside him. “Come out from behind the tree with your hands up.”

“Why should I?”

Derek’s answering yelp of pain is reason enough but the man speaks anyway. “Because I’ll fucking kill him now if ya don’t.”

He lets out a long breath and moves from behind the tree slowly. The man gets one good look at him and fires, hitting him in his right shoulder.

“Fucking **_hell_**!” Stiles curses as he falls to his knees.

Obviously this isn’t some hero movie where the villain makes stupid mistakes like letting the good guy live, but he admittedly wasn’t expecting being shot so soon.

The hunter has the audacity to look smug about the whole situation, even as half his friends lie dead or near. “Don’t want you getting anymore ideas.”

Stiles looks up only to catch the red glint of Derek’s eyes. He’s not wolfed out, somewhere in between, and he’s – doing something, moving. The dryad’s attention is pulled back when the hunter speaks again.

“You’re gonna die today, boy.”

He presses his fingers into the wound in his shoulder and growls through the pain, “Fuck. You.” He manages to get the metal and throws it to the ground. He wishes he could do the same for Derek.

He flinches when he hears the metallic clink as the gun is cocked yet again, maybe for the last time. He drops down onto his good arm and breathes out an “I’m sorry” to Derek. He gets nothing in return.

~

Pain is an interesting thing. It can either make you or break you, though it usually just falls in between and makes your life harder. Right now, it’s none of those things. If anything pain is the farthest thing from Derek’s mind right now – even though every bit of him hurts like the goddamn sun itself is pressed against his every inch of skin.

No. Derek is focused on the buzz of adrenaline that’s coursing through his veins now. He’s focused on the rabbit fast heartbeat that’s been at the edges of his mind for months now, almost a year if he counts his first encounter. And, most of all, he’s focused on the piece of shit next to him that not only shot _him_ but his friend.

He really should have been paying attention to the animal beside him. Because that's exactly what Derek becomes when the lives of those he cares about are at stake, a beast cornered and ready to attack - even if it kills him.

~

Stiles doesn’t get to hear the shot that kills him. Instead he hears a quiet growl, so low and fleeting that he has to look up to be sure he’d even heard it. What he manages to see is Derek pushing himself up halfway toward the hunter to grab his calf with clawed hands and _bite_.

He doesn’t hear the shot because he hears the screams instead.

The dryad gets to his feet as fast as he can manage and grabs the man’s gun. Before he can even think to shoot, the man’s throat has been ripped out. Stiles stands for a moment, numb and in shock, staring at the growing layer of blood that coats dirt caked skin. He’s never seen eyes so blank and cold before.

~

Derek feels himself fade, the momentary burst of energy spent on one last kill, the chance to finally save just one person, keep them safe. _A worthy cause_ , he thinks. The wolf feels Stiles tap at his cheeks – though the taps might be slaps if the shift in his field of vision can tell him anything – but he can’t manage to get out a response. His mouth is wet, but that’s not spit. It’s sour and it’s iron laden and it makes him want to – to.

He pukes on the forest floor and almost chokes on it, probably would have if it weren’t for Stiles.

Stiles. He’s saying something again. He smells funny, which is weird because they both just took baths. That’s not the funny smell though. It’s different. He smells… sad.

Derek fades away listening to the adage as old as language itself. _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end of this fic my lovelies. Also that awful writers block was thanks to 16k worth of another fic being in the way so I'll have that one finished shortly after this one tbh.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The voice is unfamiliar which helps no more to settle his thoughts concerning Stiles._  
>  ~  
> Soooo sorry about the wait guys. I rewrote this chapter like three times. Writers block is a dick. Anyways, this fic is a lot longer than I was expecting it to be but we are also almost finished. If there are any things you want to see in the final chapter let me know!

_Derek_. _Derekkkkk_.

A name is echoed throughout the foliage over and over as if played on a broken record. The voice is soft as it cascades over his body, playing at every inch of his skin only to fade away into nothing. As time goes on it seems to get further and further away from him, the gentle caress of it now nothing more than the tickle of an ant’s feet. Something tells him he should follow it, but it’s fast moving and he’s tired. So tired that even his thoughts for action are sluggish and two beats behind everything else around him. Sleep sings its siren song for him and his eyes flutter closed.

**_Derek!_ **

Awake, he’s awake now, he won’t sleep – won’t. Heat licks at his skin, much less forgiving than the gentle voice that once called out to him. The forest surrounding him is sweltering and the trees burn with urgency though no fire touches them. Each leaf withers after turning from green to a mix of reds, oranges, and yellows.

While the song of sleep is melodious and fair the shriek and crack of the burning wood makes the possibility of rest far from likely.

The wolf pulls his tired muscles into action sluggishly, moving like a crude puppet at first. Again the voice calls for him. Every bit of his body aches, but the voice sets him alight, not much unlike the forest that burns before him, but where the trees wither he livens.

A gentle hum washes over his body, soft, sad, distant. He’s heard it before, known it by many names, seen it fall from many lips and eyes. Crying. He rounds a bend and reaches a spot where, finally, green and vibrant sequoias stand before him. If he could only _reach_.

Each step in the direction of the green place is fraught with resistance from an unseen force, and now the voice is frantic, no longer a calm reassurance but a harrow filled plea.

Catching sight of something in his periphery, Derek looks down at his body. Dark tendrils coil around him, inching him backwards. Something icy and sharp shoots through his veins and panic creeps up his neck.

_Please, Derek. Please try._

He grits his teeth and pulls away from the clutches of some imminent doom he isn’t ready to face just yet. He plucks each tendril away with carefully placed claws until his control can hold no longer, the rest torn away in a fit of desperation.

He makes it one step forward only to be knocked down and pulled backwards again, but he pulls harder, and he moves forward, reaching.

Reaching for that one branch with everything he can muster, he misses once, twice, then finally gets it. But, the green place holds little relief for him aside from peace of mind. There is no wave of comfort or cool water to lap at his skin. There is only gut wrenching agony, the smell of blood, and life.

~

A lush green canopy hangs overhead. Birds flit from branch to branch between leaves quickly, silent otherwise. If it were any other day it would almost seem too quiet, even for the world of Sunset, and yet the wolf awakens from his slumber as if signaled by something, fuzzy eyed and confused.

Derek’s world is a little bit wobbly. Nothing in front of him will stay still, all of it tilts at funny angles and it looks like there’s three of everything right now. He really can’t tell what’s up or down. But, if there’s anything he _can_ be sure of it’s that his mouth tastes like absolute shit. Awful. Really fucking gross, he cannot emphasize that enough.

A few beats pass and now he could also tell you that he’s alone. There are no heartbeats around him strong enough to indicate humanoid life. Once his vision collects itself into a single stream he sits up.

His stomach twinges, ghost pain throbbing to life. The wolf frowns and presses two fingers to the troubled area. It’s healed, but only recently. Judging by the scar there was wolfsbane in the bullets. Not surprising. His shoulder is a little bit better, though not by much.

Pulling himself into the sitting position allowed him to get a better look at his overall situation. He notices he’s in a tree, which is good – he thinks, and he’s pretty high up. His things are here, or what’s left of them anyway, but Stiles is not.

Is that good or bad? Obviously bad if the man is not okay. Derek takes a deep breath and pushes himself to the side of the somewhat hastily made platform. Nothing below him. No bodies, no signs of a struggle, nothing. It’s almost eerie. He rubs at his stomach wound almost absentmindedly, wondering if he got it from something else.

The stillness of the forest irks him. His skin itches, still offended by the fight he’d begun before blacking out – how long ago? Shit, he doesn’t even know how long it’s been. Days maybe? It’s light out, at the very least it’s been a night. He clenches his jaw and racks his brain for any other details, maybe he woke up in the middle of being moved or something, anything that could help him place himself. He can’t exactly look in a mirror and see how much has changed.

He whips around at the sound of a more heavy movement and growls, just loud enough to warn. The person slowly brings their hands up in an attempt to placate him.

“You’re awake.” The voice is unfamiliar which helps no more to settle his thoughts concerning Stiles. Even with the mask Derek knew it wasn’t Stiles the moment the branches twitched. He was usually better than that.

That being said, he backs up a tad. If this isn’t Stiles then… “Who are you?”

Once the mask is off the woman smiles, somehow condescending in the small gesture. “That isn’t important.”

He snorts. “I’d say it is.”

She fixes her hair into a ponytail now that it’s free. “Not really. If I were you I’d focus on more important things.” While it’s not spoken like a threat it irritates him nonetheless.

“ _Like?_ ”

The redhead’s smile grows, she smells different. Not human, but close, kind of like Stiles. Spicier though, a little more electric. “Healing.”

“I’d heal quicker if I had the answer to a few questions.”

She seems unimpressed. “My name isn’t going to help you.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I don’t need your name to know who you are, and frankly I don’t want it,” he grits out somewhat defensively. “I just want to know why you’re here.”

“I was keeping watch,” She supplies simply. Because _that_ answers all his questions.

He shifts into a better starting position. Should anything happen he’ll at least be able to spring forward or backward or _wherever_ to defend himself. “It’s been my experience that you don’t do that sort of thing without expecting something in return.”

“Who says I didn’t get anything?”

A second heartbeat catches his ear and he turns to identify it. He’s met with brown eyes, not as bright as they usually are.

“Derek.” It’s relief and concern and apprehension all wrapped up in one word. Leave it to Stiles.

He turns back to the redhead and sneers before returning to Stiles. “What’s going on?”

Stiles looks between the two of them and then sighs, almost put upon if you had to ask Derek. “Did you not introduce yourself?”

The not-human looks a little smug. “Wasn’t important.”

He purses his lips and then settles his gaze on Derek for the time being. “That’s Lydia. Lydia, you already know this is Derek.”

She shrugs and works her way up to a better spot in the tree, leaving them.

Derek tries again, “What is going on?” Maybe if he ups the urgency in his voice someone will just _tell him_.

“It’s – She helped me.” Stiles rubs a hand down his face and steps forward, cautiously, unsure of whether he’s welcome or not.

“You’ve been out for about three days. Missed a lot.”

Derek huffs. Figures. He didn’t think it was that bad, but apparently he was wrong. “Fill me in then.”

One corner of Stiles’ mouth lifts. “Why don’t you tell me how much you remember.”

“We went hunting, I got shot. Now explain the spare,” He demands, pointing to the human-ish person. Something about her doesn’t sit right with Derek. She smells like bad news, or like bad news follows her. It’s not even necessarily a scent. More of an aura if he had to name it.

Stiles looks up to where Lydia disappeared to, somewhat reverent. “Hmm. She’s _something_. Not sure what yet. Anyway, that wasn’t the last of the hunters – y’know, right before you passed out. I managed to get you into a tree after you killed that…” He frowns and comes back to Derek. “I didn’t get to heal you much before we were being attacked again by wave two or whatever. In the midst of that I met Lydia.”

The electric blue of his wolf no doubt bleeds to the surface as he thinks of the situation Stiles was in. _Alone_. “How?”

“How what?”

Derek narrows his eyes. “How did you meet her? How can we _trust_ her?”

The dryad finally sits across from him and lets out a deep breath. “Well, for starters, you don’t _have_ to trust her.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Stiles mutters something unintelligible under his breath but continues, “I left the tree, where I had you, to lead them away so you wouldn’t get hurt anymore than you already were. Somewhere in between I knocked into Lydia, who was already killing some of the others.”

He looks up at the woman and bares his teeth briefly. “And you brought her back here because?” Derek thinks it has something to do with her looks. She’s pretty, surprisingly well kept for an apocalypse. She smells like Derek and Stiles in terms of hygiene, but she looks about ten times better. Unnaturally so. She requires further observation.

“I _brought_ her here because I needed help with you and she was looking for her boyfriend.” He says the last bit with a twinge of mirth, looking Derek up and down.

He frowns but relaxes into a more comfortable position. “And where was he?”

Stiles grimaces. “Hunters had him.”

“Is he alive?” Sure, he doesn’t know the guy, and doesn’t really want to considering the issues that having more people in their group would pose, but he’s not about to wish him an ill-timed death.

“Yeah, they wanted him alive. He was – he _is_ different. Scaly.” Stiles turns his nose up, mildly grossed out if his face is anything to go by.

Derek scrunches his eyebrows together, “They wanted him?”

“Kanima. Last of his original pack. They were collecting alphas. Hence your predicament.”

He growls reflexively and turns around, searching. “Where is he?” The last thing he needs is to let his guard down around some venomous lizard.

Stiles reaches forward and pushes him back into a sitting position. “Out, patrolling the perimeter. It’s okay. He’s – _tolerable_. In small doses.” Stiles wiggles his lips in thought and looks at Derek. “The worst thing you’ll get from him is a headache. He’s annoying at most.”

“Heard that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and looks over the edge but the man has continued on his search of the territory so he calls out, “I’m sure you’ve gotten _worse_. Sure enough to bet on it actually!”

Derek lets out a deep breath, skin prickling from the invasion of space from not just one new person but _two_. Neither of them human, one an alpha. He flicks Stiles’ arm to catch his attention. “Why exactly were they after alphas. Better yet, are they still?”

“No. No they’re dead. Made sure of that.” The dryad’s face is blank for a moment. Cold and calculating. He blinks a few times and comes back to himself. “The head of their clan was dying, caught the virus somehow. I honestly thought it had phased out by now, if anyone wasn’t dead or dying already then that was it, but uh – yeah. He wanted the bite to save himself, but you and I know that wouldn’t have worked.”

He nods and looks away. Acrid memories rise up in his throat before he can clear them away. He swallows thick and manages to spit out, “Would’ve killed whoever gave him the bite to be alpha.”

“Yep,” Stiles concedes, popping the consonant. “Didn’t matter either way. He was dead when we finally made it to him.”

“Are you sure?”

Stiles levels him with a look about as serious as the death. “Definitely.”

“What now?” Derek thinks aloud.

The dryad hums, the faintest hint of contentment slipping into it. “We keep going.”

Derek supposes that’s as good an answer as he’ll ever get. There’s not much else to aspire to nowadays. You just… live.

~

Lydia and her boyfriend Jackson part ways with them after a few days. It’s amicable, mutualism having run its course, so they just - _leave_. Large groups tend not to last long in a place like this world anyway. There are plenty of reasons, but most glaring of all, adjusting to the needs of others is difficult enough on a good day.

Stiles is only heartbroken for a day. He and Lydia probably would’ve made a dangerous pair out in the time before this. Both powerhouses in their own right. Derek wonders why Stiles let them leave if he liked her so much. Jackson was a reasonable enough price to pay.

“Want to find them?” Derek asks, whittling a branch with a carefully placed claw. He sets it down when he doesn’t get an immediate response. “Stiles.”

The dryad turns, eyes sleepy, “Hmm?”

Derek rolls his eyes and repeats himself. “Do you want to find them?”

A small grin plays at Stiles lips, he smells off though. Upset. But he still says, “No.”

“Why not?” Derek’s not exactly keen on having the added weight of two people, but if it got that look off his face Derek would find them.

Stiles shrugs. “Don’t really want them. I mean, Lydia’s great and all – really great actually. And Jackson’s…” He grimaces and pushes ahead. “It’s not that.”

Derek lets out a breath, “Then?”

A few beats pass where Stiles just stares off. His answer isn’t much of an answer at all. “How are you feeling?” Then again maybe it is.

“Fine – I’m. I’m okay.” _Physically speaking_ , he adds to himself.

Stiles nods and his fingers brush against the healed over wound on Derek’s shoulder. “I was worried about you,” he admits softly.

Derek brings his hand up to where Stiles’ is. “You don’t have to be.”

The man snorts. “You’re an idiot if you think that.”

“Stiles. Don’t worry about me. I will heal. I _am_ healed.”

He lets his hand fall from under Derek’s grasp back to his lap and mutters angrily, “I can’t just turn off concern for people I love like some switch, okay?”

Ah, and there it is. That _word_. It’s no big revelation. Derek had already loved Stiles in one way or another since he saved him from that stupid magical snare. But. He can tell this love carries a different weight than the one he felt in the beginning. Both for him and Stiles.

“Okay.” He decides, reaching out for Stiles again. He threads their fingers together and cautiously brings Stiles’ knuckles to his lips, kissing them like a whisper, faint, almost missed if you aren’t paying close attention.

Stiles is good at that when it counts. He tugs Derek forward and rests his hands on either side of Derek’s face. Just Searching. For something, anything to tell him what he needs to know. Derek doesn’t have to say it. The dryad leans in slowly, giving Derek time to back out.

The time for that passed months ago, Derek thinks as he closes the space between them.

All the worrying has left Stiles’ lips soft, relatively free of dead skin. Derek wouldn’t care either way because this kiss is like rain after a drought. A hot blanket right out of the dryer. And, _God_ , how did Derek not know he was missing out on this?

The kiss is simple to start, both of them unwilling to fuck up the good thing they’ve managed to create in this mess, but Derek can only maintain the sham of control for so long.

For starters, Stiles is too far away. He pulls the dryad into his lap and wraps his arms around him. Stiles adjusts, putting his arms around Derek’s shoulders, hands now carding through Derek’s greasy hair. Derek doesn’t even care that they taste awful. They might taste awful but it feels like happiness, and Derek from a year ago would punch himself now if he ever heard that out loud.

Their tongues slide against one another messily, no finesse, none needed, and Derek grunts into Stiles’ mouth. He feels like no amount of contact is enough and Stiles must feel the same because he wriggles out of his shirt, discarding it with their things.

Derek kisses a line up the man’s neck and nips the spot right behind Stiles’ ear eliciting a shivery breathed, “It’s been a while.”

“Not anymore,” Derek mumbles against his neck before sucking onto it.

Stiles pulls his hair and grins when he feels Derek’s chest rumble against his. “That a thing for you?”

He bites Stiles’ bottom lip and then kisses it better. “Might be.”

The dryad huffs out a laugh and chases Derek’s lips, speaking between them. “I’ll find out eventually.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, shamelessly quick, falling back against the tree behind him and groaning when Stiles rocks his hips against him.

~

Their skin sticks together from the heat and sweat, they smell like sex and two weeks worth of dirt, and it’s fine. Derek won’t say it’s perfect when he knows they could easily smell better, even find a toothbrush in some abandoned store nearby, but it _is_ pretty great.

He feels relaxed. Not quite sated but close. Fingers brush against his neck, softly, an anchoring force all the same, and he can’t help but smile.

Stiles brushes his lips across Derek’s collarbone as they lie together and says, “I think we should find another place.”

Derek can’t quite look him in the eye at this angle so he kisses the top of his head instead. “We should?”

“Yeah. Another tree house if we’re lucky, but I’ll take anything at this point.” His breath is warm against Derek’s neck.

“You just want a bed to fuck on,” Derek states bluntly, agreeing no less though.

Stiles outright laughs. “Derek I went months without touching you sexually. I could easily do that again if it meant I got a nice bed right now.”

“Doubt that,” he hums pulling Stiles’ face up for a kiss.

The dryad pecks him quickly. “You shouldn’t, you underestimate my love for beds. Did you see how many pillows were in that tree nest I had before? There were so many. _So_ many, Derek.”

The huff that escapes him is amused, but he'll never admit it. He scrubs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “Okay. We can find a bed after we get packed up tomorrow. Sound good?”

A grin spreads across the man’s face. “Great.” Stiles lays his head back down against Derek’s chest and his fingers resume their mindless route across every inch of bare skin Derek has to offer.

They don’t fall asleep, but their minds drift into a quiet lull, background noise filling the space they’ve left in their silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you that have stuck around to read this mess of a fic. I hope you've enjoyed it. Sorry again about the space in posting time on these last few chapters!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground;_  
>  And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
> 
>  
> 
> _And frogs in the pools singing at night,_  
>  And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
> 
>  
> 
> _Robins will wear their feathery fire_  
>  Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
> 
>  
> 
> _And not one will no of the war, not one_  
>  Will care at last when it is done.
> 
>  
> 
> _Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree_  
>  If mankind perished utterly;
> 
>  
> 
> _And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,_  
>  Would scarcely know that we were gone.
> 
>  
> 
>  _\- "There Will Come Soft Rains" by Sara Teasdale_  
>  ~  
> Thank you so much to everyone that read and commented. I appreciate it. This fic was truly a labor (of love I guess) and took quite a bit of time, so thank you for sticking around to read it.  
> There is a song I recommend you listen to at the end of it all, kind of the end credits.

Goosebumps ripple across skin and somehow both fire and ice race through Derek’s veins. He shoots up, no longer blissfully unaware of his surroundings, and hones in on the fluttering and uneven heartbeat that tramples across every one of his nerves. The space beside him is empty and cold, and if it weren’t for the tens, if not hundreds, of runes dotting the place he’d be sick to his stomach worried that something got _in_.

Pushing the covers back, he steps down from the bed slowly, cautious anyway. He follows the heartbeat, now even faster then before, accompanied by shorter and shorter breaths. Derek finds him huddled in the corner of the useless shower, a pale green glow encompassing him.

“I thought you’d stopped having these,” the wolf admits as he pulls Stiles into his arms. He rubs a hand up and down the dryad’s back and breathes in and out, long and even, trying to get him to follow suit.

Eventually his breath comes back to him. He doesn’t say anything, just shoves himself as close to Derek as humanly possible. Derek squeezes him reassuringly before scooping his whole body into his arms.

Stiles tenses when he gets to the threshold of their room and shakes his head. “M’not ready to go back yet,” he whispers gruffly, voice wrecked from screaming.

Wordlessly, he takes Stiles to their living room and grabs the portable DVD player. They’re gonna need to hunt for batteries for this thing again pretty soon, but it’s a worthwhile endeavor for nights like this.

 _The Goonies_ plays quietly before them, filling the space with excitement and healthy doses of suspense. The kids have just made it past the first series of booby-traps when Stiles speaks.

“Thought I stopped too.”

Derek shuts the video player and turns it off. It’s been years since everything began – or ended, and even a few years for them together. Somehow, even as a new age of Sunrise seems more and more tangible, the past never gets easier to stomach. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He thumbs at Derek’s shirt and sighs. “S’nothing new.”

“But do you want to talk about it?” They never really do. Not until the bottle is so full that there’s no room to shove it down anymore. Of course, it explodes, and there’s always a mess afterwards to be cleaned, but habits are habits and they’re hard to break.

Stiles tangles his fingers further into the shirt. “I’m still not used to this.”

“Used to what?” Derek muses aloud – he already knows the answer, they’ve had something close to this discussion before.

“This. _Us_. It’s like I keep falling asleep thinking we have a normal life, and then I have nightmares that suck me right back down to level one. It’s – we’re – I don’t know." He does know. It’s just a sore topic.

Derek pulls him in. He had been giving him space to loosen up earlier, but now he can hold Stiles firmly enough to make him believe there is something worth walking toward on the horizon. Even if it’s just a peaceful death. Stiles has done that for him, it’s the least he can do to give it right back.

“Do you want to come back to bed?”

The dryad lifts his face from where it’s buried in the crook of Derek’s neck. He rubs his lips on Derek’s shoulder almost absentmindedly before exhaling one long, “Fine.”

A grin touches Derek’s face and he dips his head to kiss Stiles on the forehead. Then his nose. And finally his mouth. Stiles tilts his face upward and opens his mouth ever so slightly, tongue dragging across Derek’s lips in silent question. He obliges and slides his tongue across Stiles’ then up against the roof of his mouth, and he hums – more calm now that Stiles is too.

The dryad backs away and presses a more chaste kiss to his lips. “It’s kisses like that one that have me thinking the world is an okay place,” he mumbles sleepily.

He lifts Stiles up as he stands and kisses him one more time. “Maybe it is.”

“Satomi would tell you you’re full of shit.”

Derek huffs. “Probably. She’s earned the right, as long as she’s lived.”

Stiles smirks as he hits the bed and cracks an eye open. “M’tellin her you called her old tomorrow.”

He rolls his eyes. Stiles can say whatever he wants, Satomi will still like him. If she didn’t he and Stiles wouldn’t have even been clued in on the surprisingly high functioning "town" she’d managed to pull together here in Oregon.

He flops down on top of Stiles in retaliation and both of them shuffle around the bed for a moment until they’ve situated around one another, Stiles as the little spoon. Derek nuzzles the back of his neck and breathes out a faint, “I love you.” His hand is squeezed in return.

~

Stiles sits one branch above him, staring down into the clearing. His ears are pink from the chill, exposed now that his long hair is finally gone again, and his nose just barely peeks out from underneath the scarf he’s managed to wrap around both his shoulders and neck. Derek breaks his distracted gaze and follows the dryad’s focused eyes to a buck – young and fit.

The dryad taps the tree branch underneath him and a green light zips along it and to a neighboring tree across the space before them. The pair gets a well-mimicked birdcall in return and Stiles finally looks down at him, eyes narrow and searching. He arches an eyebrow and directs it at the lone deer – an unspoken offer for the kill.

Derek nods, a small gesture one could only notice if they were looking for it, and quietly slips from his jacket before jumping down and sprinting after the deer.

If he had told himself five years ago that one day he’d lose everything he came to know as home – he’d believe it in a heartbeat. It’s so easy to believe the bad things in life. But, if he’d told himself that afterwards he’d end up finding a mate in the form of a sarcastic and cutting dryad – and eventually another pack of sorts – ha. He would’ve laughed in his own face.

And yet, here he is, running through the trees after a deer, this time without fear of being shot. He can sense Stiles running alongside him in the trees as well as Garrett at his flank. He knows that once he catches this deer they’ll bring it back to Satomi and use every bit of it. All twelve of them. And maybe, just maybe, at the end of the week, at the end of the month, at the end of the year the pain that echoes through all of their hearts will blossom into fond memories and the nightmares will subside, fading into neutral dreams where they can let themselves believe everything might just work out.

They’ll never drop their guard, always be a little mistrustful, but somehow Derek, ever the budding optimist, thinks that there’s hope shining on the horizon. And even if there isn’t, he’ll walk towards the feeling knowing that every step of the way Stiles will be at his side, and every night he’ll fall asleep knowing that there’s at least one person left that truly loves and trusts him.

 

EPILOGUE: REWIND

 

The first time Stiles sees it he’s out cataloguing the woods, finally leaving his hideaway. It hasn’t been more than eight months since he’s lost Scott and he could _swear_ he’s seeing things. Would almost bet on it. But he watches, transfixed by that midnight black coat and raw power. The wolf is in the woods.

Stiles has seen some amazing (and fucked up) things in his day, reanimated corpses, supernatural possessions, even a dragon – he still doesn’t believe that one sometimes, but somehow _this_ is what pulls him out of his mind. A black wolf, swift as the wind and just as furious if its hunting strategy is anything to go by. _How long have you been here?_ Who knows.

All Stiles knows is that when he woke up this morning he was definitely not expecting to see what he assumes is a wolf. It’s huge though, so maybe it isn’t, or maybe wolves are that big now that most of the humans are dead. He doesn’t know. His chest tightens as he watches it operate undisturbed. He envies the animal’s ability to gallivant through the woods as though it’s the apex predator.

But Stiles could’ve sworn there weren’t any wolves in California, so he finds himself questioning his eyesight – he must be going mad from the months alone in that house. Must be.

The second time Stiles sees the wolf he still doesn’t believe his eyes. He’d definitely get himself to the nearest optometrist if the world were still functioning because that _cannot_ be a wolf playing in the water. First of all, do wolves even play? Five minutes worth of staring like Stiles has been would tell you that – yes – they do. But that can’t be right can it? _Sure it can_.

The third time the wolf makes an appearance, it both saves and changes Stiles’ life. He was just supposed to be out hunting, just needed some provisions for his house because he was so tired of eating fucking canned food. Of course he can’t manage to do anything without attracting trouble, no matter how careful he aims to be. Trouble will always find him.

There are so many of them, zombies, corpses, stubborn fuckers, whatever you want to call them. He’s lucky Liam left Kira’s katana and that weird arrow thing because his ass would be grass without it. He dashes forward, zipping and cutting through the trees, and he’d already be up and out of here if it wasn’t for the fact that he decided to use most of his energy destructing his stupid dome earlier today.

He’s halfway through cursing himself to hell and back, slashing and stabbing whatever gets within reach when he almost loses it. Why the hell is he fighting? How is he even here right now? He should be **dead**. He wants to be. All the time now. This world is so ugly and fucked up and it obviously hates him so _why_  –

The wolf breaks into his field of vision and tears through the neck of a zombie like it’s butter. He doesn’t have time to gape, there’s too much going on, so much in fact that he almost gets attacked from behind and _holy god_... He breathes out a sigh of relief. Maybe he _doesn’t_ want to die because his throat almost closed up when he was faced with his mortality just then.

Vibrations wrack his body and he’s more than a little dizzy. He’d throw up if there were anything in his stomach. Stiles manages to pull himself together long enough to find the wolf staring silently at him, chest moving just as hard, muzzle bloody and _gross_. Suddenly the ebony coat isn’t the most dramatic feature. It’s the eyes.

Electric blue eyes follow his every minute movement and it’s probably only been seconds but for Stiles it feels like _years_. He knows those eyes. He’s seen them in another lifetime – far from these woods. A werewolf.

Stiles removes his mask with undependable limbs, breath punched out of him by the reality of a werewolf in the woods. _His woods_. How? He charmed this place, if this thing is alive then – then it must be good. _Right?_

He looks at the bodies littered around him and he can’t figure out whether their demise is good news for him in terms of the wolf.

He finds himself speaking aloud to it now, but when he gets too close the wolf growls at him. Every bit of his emotion closes off instantly and he doubts himself five times over. Maybe he’s looking too hard for something that’s not there. Maybe this isn’t a werewolf.

But the _eyes_ …

“Figures,” he breathes out, disappointment and frustration no doubt dripping in his words. "Probably feral…” _Too good to be true_ , he thinks to himself.

But it’s not too good to be true, as Stiles comes to find with time. It’s not exactly great, or a heavenly beacon of light, but this wolf is – he’s like – _dessert_. You don’t always need it, you can’t always stomach it, but when you can it’s just so _nice_.

Stiles finds, as he runs into the wolf more and more, that it’s just so fucking _nice_. To have a solid presence beside him that isn’t just a tree. To have someone he could talk to if and when he decided that he wanted that.

And as time goes on, it does become something great, because Stiles cares about Derek, and Derek cares about him and Stiles is honestly so happy that he could practically scream.

~

They’re forests away, maybe even a lifetime too, and Stiles spots the wolf for the umpteenth time. He’s in the woods, standing tall in the face of the adversity of the world, and there’s a spot by his side just for Stiles. He’ll never know how he managed to secure it, only that he’s glad that he did. That’s all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Credit Song: "Empty Gold" by Halsey  
> ~  
> Bonus! A sneak peak at the next long fic I am working on >:)  
> (( Right now Derek’s cursing himself for leaving his phone at his house because the area needs to be searched, just not alone, not if there are any more traps he won’t see by himself.  
> He gets up the stairs on the front porch in two steps and enters quickly. His phone sits on the table by the door and when it lights up under his touch he sees he has a message from Stiles. He rolls his eyes but clicks on it anyway.  
>  _Message: Hey, Derek, it’s me. Stiles. Uh, call me back please? I’m feeling kind off. Something’s wrong._  
>  Derek body tenses. Something _is_ off. He plays the message again and hears something else, something low. He turns to the rest of the house and catches the red light of his answering machine by the couch. He steps forward quickly and presses play.  
>  _Message: Derek pick up your fucking phone. Something is very wrong. I can feel it, okay. I need you to answer. I don’t know why but-_  
>  Something crashes in the background and Derek’s heart nearly stops. He fast-forwards to the next message only to hear a series of crashes and grunts and Stiles yelling, “call the police!”  
> Derek grabs his keys and storms out the front door, dialing Erica and Boyd as he rushes to his car. “ _Pick up_ ,” he growls. They don’t.  
> He slams his door shut and starts the car, puts his phone down in the cup holder, and uses the bluetooth function to call on his car phone.  
> “Ugh. This better be good.” A sleepy Erica answers after a few rings.  
> “Wake up, now.” His voice is a deep timbre riddled with concern and nothing short of fury. “Isaac was right. They weren’t look for us.”  
> Erica is far more lucid this time around. “What do you mean? Derek where are you?”  
> He growls and presses the accelerator into the floor. “Headed to Stiles’ apartment. They have him Erica. Get Isaac and Boyd and meet me there.” ))
> 
> (Stay tuned for this "Stiles finds out about werewolves (and more)" fic if you're interested)

**Author's Note:**

> Side Note:  
> A lot of what's written here is me taking ludicrous artistic liberty, and I love it, even if what I'm saying couldn't ever happen.


End file.
